The Soninké Foyer and the Mouride Brotherhood Dafne Accoroni

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Islamic Integration and Social Wellbeing in Paris: The Soninké Foyer and the Mouride Brotherhood Dafne Accoroni

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Dafne Accoroni. Islamic Integration and Social Wellbeing in Paris: The Soninké Foyer and the Mouride Brotherhood. Social Anthropology and ethnology. University College London, 2011. English. tel- 01297381

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Islamic Integration and Social Wellbeing in Paris:

The Soninké Foyer and the Mouride Brotherhood

Dafne Accoroni

University College London (UCL)

Thesis submitted to the University of London

for the degree of Ph.D. in Anthropology

PhD in Anthropology Awarded on 28th Decembre 2011

Supervisors: Pr Roland Littlewood and Pr Mike Rowlands.

I, Dafne Accoroni, confirm that the work presented in this thesis is my own. Where information has been derived from other sources, I confirm that this has been indicated in the thesis.

Abstract

The focus of my thesis is on Muslim Soninké migrants from the region of Kayes (Mali), living in a foyer (housing centre for exclusively male residents) in Paris. The foyers are a peculiar French characteristic, to which my interest was drawn to analyse issues of integration as part of the French national debate on migration and Islam. Islam appears to be the central issue, since it is by drawing on it that Muslims claim their identity in the

Diaspora and the discourse of French republicanism is articulated in order to integrate or eschew the influx of Muslim migrants onto French soil. The Mouride brotherhood serves to broaden the view on Islam in Paris, as one of its many faces and to show the way

Muslim allegiances are changing in relation to the home country. I look at the development of debates surrounding migration and second-generation migrants in France. Their focus has now veered towards the Muslims‟ home countries, their own development and peace making. It may be said that France no longer trusts the Muslims it hosts in the country, while at the same time wanting to stop migration flows from the “Muslim countries”, in line with the tightening of migration rules, common to other European countries, especially enforced after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks. In light of this trend, I have outlined changes in migration patterns. The process by which first-generation migrants can obtain residency rights and legal status has toughened, so much so that the number of illegal migrants has increased, with the impossibility for these people to return home and be part of the mobile world, as globalization had promised. At present, first-generation

West African Muslim migrants in France are trapped in a limbo, at the borders of society, unable to integrate and/or to return home. They have been transformed into a hybrid category defying earlier sociological understandings of the phenomenon.

Acknowledgments

This thesis is dedicated to my co-supervisors, Prof. Roland Littlewood and Prof. Michael

Rowlands in grateful acknowledgement of their inspiration, teaching, example and support, which led to the conclusion of my work. They allowed me to face with determination and courage the difficulties implied by my work, which addresses Islam in a moment in which it is encountering negative bias. Their encyclopaedic knowledge has been invaluable in this endeavour. Dr Simon Dein has also offered his insights, while putting me in contact with

Dr R. Bennegadi, director of the Minkowska Centre in Paris, where I worked during the first fieldwork period, obtaining invaluable information on the Parisian medical setting and many issues in transcultural psychiatry in that context. Dr. Bennegadi has allowed me to attend seminars and to present my work during the discussion groups held at the centre. I therefore thank them both. I am very grateful to Prof. J. Copans who, on the very first stages of my field in Paris, offered to discuss my work with him and allowed me to attend his seminars at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. He also introduced me to his colleague and friend M. Diouf, professor at Michigan University, and has facilitated my encounter with Prof. D. Fassin and R. Collignon. The latter has especially granted useful insights, comments and advice all along my field research in Paris. I think of them all dearly. I thank those responsible at the Mouride cult centre in Paris, who allowed me to discuss issues about Mouridism and the community, introducing me gradually and thoroughly to Sufi Islam and West African migration. It is also to their merit if I developed more confidence in carrying out research in both a foreign country and language. Their friendship is something I brought back with me.

My grateful acknowledgment goes to the people of Foyer 93. Initially suspicious of me, they have become over time affectionate respondents and friends. First of all the imam, who granted my way into the life of Foyer 93, after the delegate of the residents had accorded his permission; and the barman who allowed me to spend time in the café-bar, where I had more chances to meet people and observe their dynamics. In the end, I was honoured as a special guest, invited to have lunches at the canteen and free tea and coffee at the café bar. On my leaving day, the workers at the forge produced a pair of earrings, which they made especially for me. The experience in Foyer 93 will stay with me forever, as will those earrings, its concrete sign. There are many people, in the academia and in the field, who have variously contributed to my work: my appreciation goes to them too.

Among these are the associations either working for or run by migrants, with which I worked and which have addressed me to different key workers or to ulterior associations, useful to my analysis. Finally, my thoughts go to my family, without whom my research would have not even started. They supported me through the highs and lows of this long intellectual and emotional journey. My friends in Paris, London and Italy are too many to mention. They are all in my heart and figuratively all acknowledged on this paper.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements p. 4

Introduction

Looking for Islam in Paris, finding a foyer p. 7

Chapter 1

France and Islam: a contested relationship p. 32

Chapter 2

Methodology: a fieldwork outcome p. 67

Chapter 3

Foyer 93: the place, organization and the people p. 98

Chapter 4

Society and Islam at Foyer 93 p. 149

Chapter 5

The Mouride brotherhood in the Île-de-France region p. 186

Chapter 6

French provision of health for migrants: between mediation and misunderstanding. p. 238

Conclusion

Mobile world, blocked migrants. p. 289

Glossary p. 307

Table of Illustrations

Figure 1 Map of the Île-de-France Region p. 98

Figure 2 Foyer 93 p. 106

Bibliography p. 315

Appendix p. 331 6

Introduction

Looking for Islam in Paris, finding a Foyer.

I. Background

Mouridism is a Sufi branch of Islam founded by Cheick Amadou Bamba M‟Backé1 (1855-

1927) in Senegal, which to date incorporates both ever increasing numbers of practising

Muslims and, to a lesser degree, converts from other religions such as Catholicism. The

faithful of the brotherhood, the talibés, have become well known agents globally. During

my pilot fieldwork in Paris (summer 2004), I attended one Mouride cult centre in a suburb

of Paris, in the Île-de-France region, to focus on my initial topic: the traditional healing

practices for psychiatric illnesses amongst the Mouride community. It soon became clear to

me that healing among the Mouride community is an intellectual construction not unlike

the Russian “Matrioska” dolls: the core subject lay ever deeper. My respondents maintain

that Mouridism is nothing but Islam in its original prophetic message, revived by their

founder CAB. Asking my Sufi Muslim respondents about traditional healing was, in their

eyes, somehow akin to disqualifying Sufism as a branch of Islam, since theirs is a Sufi

branch of Islam attempting to bring back the original prophetic message, through the

teaching of their founder CAB. Thus, to talk about Mouride healing would imply admitting

that they are unorthodox within or different from Islam. They fight against the old colonial

depictions of Islam in West Africa as being black Islam, that is, a local and folkloric

expression of the otherwise universal Muslim message. They view the researchers‟ interest

in uncovering healing amongst Muslim communities as the Western way to demonstrate

their customary and backward practice of Islam. I had to reformulate the topic for my

doctoral fieldwork in Paris (June 2005- Sept 2006) in order to understand how Islam, as

1 Cheick Amadou Bamba, henceforth CAB 7

embedded in my respondents‟ lives, was part of creating a sense of wellbeing and a way of

living in France. The social dimension of Islam in France thus opened up and took on a

much larger emphasis than I had initially postulated.

Islam appears to be the central issue, since it is by drawing on Islam that Muslims claim

their identity in the Diaspora and that French republicanism articulates its discourse in

order to integrate or eschew the influx of Muslim migrants into the French soil. Migration,

Islam and identity were the buzz words during the time of the riots in the French banlieues2

(October-Nov 2005), when angry French youngsters by attacking buildings and cars,

expressed their rage at the unjust French exclusionary policies targeting second generation

and newly arrived migrants. Islam in France is the prism through which integration, race

and religion takes form in disguise. In fact, assimilation, community and

communautarisme are used as substitutes for them, or rather as the French versions of

those concepts.

The Soninké ethnic group is spread between Senegal and Mali along the Senegal River

Valley, being in both states a subdominant group: the Wolof ethnic group being the

dominant one in Senegal, while in Mali it is the Bambara. The Soninkés are part of the

Mande greater family group, comprising the aforementioned Bambara and the Mandinka. I

shifted my interest towards the Soninkés, who then came to be the focus of my study. This

occurred almost naturally, through my first tentative steps in the French metropolis. I

thought that starting my investigation from and within the Mouride cult centre at the

2 The banlieues have a wider meaning than “outskirts of a town” or “suburbs”. They comprise the departments surrounding the capital city of a region and including smaller communes. I will use the words suburb and banlieue as a synonyms of each other.

8 outskirts of Paris would have provided good material to observe Sufi Muslims in Paris. I thought that the mosque as an institutional Sufi hub would later allow my insertion into the community. This was not the case. As happens almost in a classic way doing anthropological fieldwork, I withdrew, and, as I will show in chapter two, through the medium of associations working with West African migrants in Paris, I then resorted to a foyer (housing for single male migrants) to the South of Paris where Soninké workers lived. Henceforth, I will refer to it as Foyer 93.

Even though the passage from one community to another may appear haphazard, the field itself signalled the continuity between them. The first group, which will be the focus of chapter six and provide a comparative element to the Soninké community, is a Sufi branch of Islam, while the second is a community of people from the region of Kayes, Western

Mali, on the border with Senegal. As mentioned above, the Soninkés live along the banks of the Senegal River across Senegal and Mali. Among the Mouride talibés there may be

Soninké believers, yet the Soninké community from Mali in France, which practices Sunni

Islam (as the Mourides do) has no Sufi allegiance. Thus, while the Sufi leaders, the marabouts, are prominent figures among the Mourides, at Foyer 93, the marabout has a different role for the community: we will see that the imam has a say in managing the residents‟ organization, while the marabout is the person both the residents and people from outside Foyer 93 attend for advice and divination sessions.

According to co-workers of mine in Paris, anthropological work within Muslim communities in France has changed surprisingly. September 11th 2001 has marked indelibly our historical memory with the power of a disruptive violence that has raised the

9 counter-logic of resentment and closure towards the Muslim communities in Europe.

Public discourse worldwide had made national security its prime political objective, and transformed the Muslim communities into potential suspects. The Al-Qaida network, which has carried out terrorist acts in the United States first and Europe later (the attacks in

London and Madrid) is now spreading its links in Saharan Africa, declaring hostility to the

French presence there. The controversial and contested presidential election in Ivory Coast has increased the antagonism between France and Africa, the first aligning with the newly elected president Alassane Ouattara, while the Christians from the Southern regions of

Ivory Coast disclaim him in favour of the old president Laurent Gbagbo, threatening to transform this political quandary into interethnic war. The long-standing relationship of

France with Islam, in the colonies first and in France later through migration, is caught in the stalemate in which diffidence has increased on both sides. The fact that African respondents are less and less willing to co-operate with anthropologists is indicative of a different political climate and a heightened perceived sense of uncertainty and fear. African studies in France have declined, as has the French confidence towards Islam.

The 2005 riots in the suburbs of French cities symbolically catalyzed together the perceived evils facing France, namely migration and Islam. Both these were perceived as responsible for changing or indeed disfiguring French notions of citizenship, through values that only Muslim countries could accept. France adheres firmly to its Republican standpoint and universalism, based on Rousseau‟s notion of a social contract of equal individuals before the law. From this perspective, the Muslim community is guilty of adhering to family and community allegiances, of speaking their own vernacular, of practicing polygyny and of resorting to their own medical practices. They are alien to the

Republic even when they are French citizens of migrant descent, because their commitment is either towards their parents‟ countries of origin or their Muslim heritage.

They are therefore seen as hybrids and half-citizens. The tightening of migration laws make them an ever increasing illegal labour force, pushed to the margins of the Republic and of Paris. Second generation migrants from Algeria and West Africa dwell in the suburbs, visibly cut off from Paris by the peripherique (ring road encircling Paris), while first generation illegal migrants live in the foyers. The construction of vulnerability, exclusion and difference is tangibly in progress. The foyers, scattered around Paris and in the Île-de-France region, exemplify the plight of Muslim migrants. As Timera (1996) has pointed out, notwithstanding the small number of people living there in comparison to the wider migrant population, the foyers are the gateway to future housing and work for the migrants from Mali, especially when they are illegal. This way, the foyers are representative of these migrants‟ strategies in settling in the big city, since over time they host different waves of migrants. This is also true for other ethnic groups from the Sahel, organised in the foyers by ethnic relevance, in Paris as much as in other towns of France such as Marseille, Lyon and so forth.

II. The focus and research questions.

The foyers are a central issue for the Republic historically, politically and socially. The first ones, as I will discuss at more length in chapter four, emerged as a consequence of the reconstruction of France, in need of a labour force in the aftermath of World War II. The first residents were Algerians, hosted in foyers/dormitories, generally made out of ex- factories. At the time, these buildings resembled military areas under the control of a guardian who watched over them permanently. The foyers now have a completely different

11 status: the migrants are the residents of their own space over which neither the mayor of

Paris nor the police nor other social figures can interfere, unless criminal activities are taking place. Given the number of illegal migrants present at Foyer 93, one wonders in fact, how this can be. Thanks to the infamous rebellions of the 1970s and the ongoing work of social services and associations in the foyers, the latter have reached the status of social residence, or parc social, granting their residents the right to their privacy. Nevertheless, the foyers are still no-go areas for lay French people. Those in Paris are particularly unsightly, because they are the oldest ones and have never been restored: many are falling apart and security and health are never guaranteed. Open sewage, no anti-fire measures, no hygiene in the collective kitchens and so on make one viewing these living spaces wonder whether Islam is really the core problem. Clearly, the entanglement of political and economic interests with the social reality of how West African migrants live in France entails an anthropological understanding of the issues surrounding the phenomenon.

French ideas of the individual, citizenship and secularism collide with the way the Soninké migrants understand how to partake in society as Muslims in a meaningful way.

Thus, the research question that has sustained my investigation through my fieldwork in

Paris is how my Soninké respondents fare in Paris, as first generation migrants from the rural areas of Kayes. What is under investigation is the totality of the microcosm of their experience: their organization at Foyer 93, class divisions and their practice of Islam, but also their relationships, often controversial, with the associations working on the ground for migrants in Paris. This way, a picture is drawn from within and outside Foyer 93 in order to show both the Soninkés‟ view about their own position in France and, on the other

12 hand, the French institutional view of them. By so doing, I can analyse how migration in

France is perceived, conceptualized and managed on the ground.

The choice of Foyer 93 is not casual: it is one of those foyers that are known as foyers- taudis, slums, which are part of the post-war housing project aimed at transforming ex- factories into large dormitories for the migrant labour force. These were seen at the time as temporary. Like Foyer 93, other foyers-taudis are also organised ethnically. However,

Foyer 93 is particularly significant because the historical and social reality of the Soninkés has changed considerably. They are no longer the first wave of migrants to arrive in

France, nor are they second generation migrants. Thus, they reawaken the debate about the h of new citizens of migrant descent in France, and the cultural adjustments that both the receiving and host community need to make so as to be able to live together comfortably.

The Soninkés in Paris are now into their third generation and yet, they continue to arrive from Kayes through trajectories similar to those described twenty years ago by French anthropologists like Timera (1996). The key site in the migration process continues being the place-foyer, where people cram together with their few belongings in small rooms.

These foyers have survived without much having been done to improve them. The physical space that the residents inhabit determines inextricably their subjectivity: the rooms do not allow anyone the peace of mind to sleep at night, let alone to safeguard their privacy. The common areas, such as the canteen and the café-bar, allow the residents to have a space to relax, yet other boundaries intervene to make even those areas unavailable: caste divisions, age groups and seniority in the migration create and recreate the space and the priorities of

Foyer 93 continuously. The materiality of Foyer 93 is strictly linked to the wellbeing of the residents who, as with Foyer 93 itself, are left to decay together within it. The ageing of the

13 residents along with that of the building demonstrates the trap in which these migrants have fallen: their expected temporary stay in France has become a life-long stay; their illegal status has in some cases never been cleared; they have lived in France as invisible people, while absent from their homeland. They are neither here nor there, neither citizens nor migrants. As defined by Sayad (1998), the latter are people whose return is constitutive of their condition. We are not simply in the presence of a metaphoric idea of social disease

(Sontag, 1990), since Foyer 93 makes the suffering of these migrants palpable and concrete. The stink, dirt, insecurity and noise of Foyer 93 tell us upon entering what the residents face daily: exclusion, abandonment, danger and fear. Foyer 93, like the other foyers-taudis, will undergo relocation projects in the near future. The disease will be removed, while the residents are not granted any assurances regarding their future. They are likely to face repatriation. Hence, what are their expectations? How do they express ideas of wellbeing in France through their experience in Foyer 93? This point leads me to the analysis of the associations working on the ground for the migrants‟ health and wellbeing. I also carried out participant observation within associations whose aims were cultural and developmental. These are mentioned in the methodological chapter (see chapter three), even though they are not part of the main body of this thesis. Nevertheless, they provided me with a wider perspective of the migratory scene (i.e. about Soninké women in Paris and the co-operation of the Parisian municipality in migrants‟ development projects in Kayes).

The Minkowska Centre and Migrations et Santé are the two associations with which I worked most at different stages of my fieldwork. These were for different reasons. The first is a clinic working on migrants‟ mental health that applies transcultural psychiatry in its

14 practice. Medical anthropology, that is, the understanding of the migrants‟ cultural background in the aetiology, formation and expression of the illness is emphasised, analysed and managed by anthropologists, who are part of the team of the centre.

Traditional healing is not part of the psychiatric care offered; as a method it is, in fact, criticized. However, traditional, religious, biographical and social elements, which may be conducive to the individual‟s formulation of the illness, are taken into account in order to provide a service which best fits the migrants‟ needs and therapeutic demands. I was able to join the centre as an anthropologist and participate in the weekly debates attended by the whole staff: the director, psychiatrists, social workers, research students in psychiatry and psychology and mainly anthropologists from Anglophone countries (Canada and the

United Kingdom). The centre premises its work on the model provided by the American anthropologist and psychiatrist Arthur Kleinman, about the relationship between illness and culture and the distinction between sickness, disease and illness (Kleinman, 1980;

1988). The weekly seminars are the occasion for the whole team to discuss therapeutic dilemmas together with pragmatic issues that may arise at the centre (i.e. wrong referrals, the improvement of communication between the centre and external institutions, as well as among the different members of staff and so on). Basing part of my fieldwork at the

Minkowska Centre was crucial to understand the issues surrounding the migrants not simply as encountered in therapy, but as individuals in French society. By looking at how patients were referred to the centre, it was possible to gauge practically how they seek medical help and conversely what is done for them on the ground. Cultural barriers are not simply linguistic (for instance, translators of Arabic and Wolof can be provided), but stem from the cultural communication, which takes place in therapy. Psychiatrists and psychologists attempt not to simply decode or translate the patients‟ explanatory models of

15 suffering which may not correspond to clinical and western nosography. The ambivalence of the patients, split between two worlds, their displacement and angst may often be ascribed to mystical causes and/or human witchcraft. Similarly, the psychiatrist is caught in the ambivalence of being situated at the edge of two worlds: the French one, from which his therapeutic tradition stems, and that of the patient, which he is demanded to ameliorate.

The centre is at the forefront of the attempt to evaluate the social and contextual situations that migrants face in France. These are seen as potential causes of discomfort and illness.

Therefore, I will assess in chapter six the work and organization of the Minkowska Centre and present one case study.

Migrations et Santé (henceforth M&S) is the association that I addressed at the beginning of my fieldwork in Paris and that in turn allowed me access to Foyer 93. As with the activities carried out by the Minkowska Centre, M&S works with migrants‟ health issues with the objective of taking into account the practical difficulties they encounter in their health-seeking behaviour. One of these is the bureaucratic process they have to go through and which in many instances represents a real obstacle. I should note here that the majority of the residents at Foyer 93 are illiterate. M&S depends on the French health system and operates in places considered to have priority in terms of the levels of exposure to health risks and the difficulties of access to health entitlements. M&S works on the ground with a team of medical doctors, social workers and anthropologists. They carry out audits in the foyers in order to let the residents voice their concerns, to provide free health check-ups and to offer health prevention advice and information. Foyer 93 is one of the many foyers under M&S action. I shadowed the person responsible for the activities in the foyers for a few weeks, in order to map the differences between them, before deciding where I would

16 carry out my fieldwork. The particular setting of Foyer 93, which has attracted the curious attention of photographers, film amateurs and journalists (all rejected by the residents) and its extemporal quaint look, conjoined to make me eventually choose to study Foyer 93. It was not simply the age of the building, but also the activities going on, the improvised markets and the openness of the place, which gained my trust. Contrary to my own expectations, the person responsible for the residents‟ committee, the délégué, gave me his approval to work there only after a few visits. As I will show later, I had to struggle a lot more to achieve legitimacy in the eyes of the residents, but the first issue had already been decided: my fieldwork would take place in Foyer 93.

III. Anthropology of the foyers.

As Bazin et al. (2006) amongst others have pointed out, anthropology in France (probably not unlike other countries) has from its inception been concerned with the study of either the rural communities of France or with far distant communities. In this way, it has addressed the exotic, the alien and the external, lacking an understanding from within, for those realities that have been pushed to the margins even when present in France. African studies feature such illustrious names as Amselle, Copans, Coulon and Diop amongst the most renowned. Migration studies started out using a structural approach with Noiriel

(1988). Most recently, social scientists have turned to the communities in France such as the Malians, with regards to their growing developmental projects in Africa through the cooperation of French associations (Quiminal, 1994).

Interestingly, medical anthropological studies focusing on the health seeking behaviour of migrants have provided an understanding of the problems they suffer and their social

17 dimension, but they have also provided a critique of the way French transcultural psychiatry and French society have engaged with migration. Devereux and Nathan led the way, filling the gap between psychiatry and medical anthropology, and they were followed by work on the ground and targeted specific anthropological research (see chapter seven).

Nonetheless, the foyers, where people sojourn at times for twenty years, have been looked upon as gateways, transit zones, temporary solutions to future more solid outcomes, such as private housing and development projects carried out in the migrants‟ countries of origin. The foyers are suspended between the unsatisfactory present and the projection of a better future: new residency permits, a place for a bed, more room in the wardrobe. A sense of blockage seizes those who enter the place, notwithstanding the frenetic activity generally going on at Foyer 93. The detachment of the foyers from the rest of Paris and even from their own neighbourhoods stigmatizes further the people who inhabit them. The foyers are socially invisible as much as their residents are silent, as they undergo the same denial of the French colonial history, of which the former are a testimony. Meanwhile, the foyers have over time seen the coming and going of different people, the sign of time marking these buildings with their deterioration.

In a post-colonial fashion, I carried out fieldwork in one of these foyers because the anthropologist there acts as a broker, allowing life stories and people to talk for themselves

(whether this can ever be achieved) to the wider public. Certainly, I had to acquire the legitimacy from my respondents to do so, who surprisingly, accepted my work and me under the impulse of their increasing awareness of French opinion about them. Despite my own reservations about their response to me and the general lack of mobilization within

Foyer 93, the residents needed to be heard and to talk. This, which is also the finding of

18 medical associations working within the foyers, reveals the psychological need for individuals to be listened to, beyond the group spectacle, which depicts them as a community of people always clustered together. The “African-style” community life is a product of nothing more than the lack of privacy induced by the over-crowdedness of the foyers, thus it is a sign of their marginalization. The residents complain and are very vociferous about this, craving to be listened to. What are the channels for them to express themselves in a situation already curtailed by illegality, isolation and poverty? What are the margins of marginality? Is Islam the fundamental issue for residents as the political discourse would imply?

By referring to the definition provided by Tribalat (1982), integration is a product of the gradient of cultural and ethnic mixing, of the ongoing relationship with institutions, of professional and economic viability and access to housing and social services. Her study of migrant households and their composition based on the 1975 census in France reveals the level of insertion of the migrant population. Notwithstanding the imprecision of the statistical analyses, which for example consider only the nationality of the head of the household and not also that of the other members (p. 133), it is still possible to draw together three forms of housing with respect to the migrant population: ordinary (family, family plus one isolated member), collective housing (religious institutions, work place such as hospitals, hotels etc and the Foyers of the working migrants) and other (military, temporary workers etc). Collective housing counts for only two per cent of the households.

Nonetheless, considering that black Africans are 2.4% of the total population and that one out of ten lives in the foyers, the number is proportionally very high and also representative of their housing strategies. Tribalat concludes by linking professional and migratory

19 instability to “unstable ways of life”, since no family life in collective housing is indicative of poor social life. This is also significant in ordinary households in which three or more single migrant adults live together. Collective housing may be a solution if it were genuinely temporary and allowed a way out to those who have no family link or other networks in the Metropolis. What happens, instead, is the opposite. West African migrants and, as far as my study is concerned, the Soninkés from the region of Kayes, happen to live at Foyer 93 for three quarters of their lives, so much so that the ageing of the residents has been targeted as one of the most urgent issues to address in the near future in the foyers

(Migrations et Santé, 2007 bulletin).

Truly, the features of present-day migration have changed. As Withol de Wenden argues

(2001, p.12), there are almost as many forms of migration as the number of migrants themselves. In fact, any migratory project is unique in itself, strategies overlap at moments in time, without being finally the univocal choice. The old “migratory couples” as she defines them, that is, the movement from the ex-colonies to the ex-colonial powers such as between France and West Africa, the United Kingdom and the countries of the

Commonwealth (op. cit, p. 9) are no longer the main points either of arrival or of departure.

It appears that the poorest countries in Africa turn towards nearer countries in the same continent; that sending Mediterranean countries such as Spain and Italy have turned into receiving countries; that the “pull” factors to migration have taken supremacy over the

“push” factors (ibid), meaning that the attractiveness of the richest countries has become a reason in itself to emigrate, not necessarily linked to the poverty of one‟s home country.

The typologies of migration she enumerates also range from spatial categories (national and transnational, asylum seeking and Diaspora) to the social/cultural categories, classing

20 migrants by gender, age, social status and so on. Others would read the phenomenon in economic, political or demographic terms (op. cit, p. 11). In this global era, mobility is no longer limited in time as in the past (seasonal migration in Africa, or temporary labour work in the factories of Europe). The restrictions at the frontiers of France after 1974 made people believe that migration would gradually stop, or that only élite migrants would be able to migrate easily. Nonetheless, migration has remained constant. The new image of the migrant is no longer that of the rural migrant coming from the village without schooling. Indeed, illegal migrants are also middle class people who have come to Europe in the hope of advancing their career. However, while this is the general picture and apparent trend in Europe, my fieldwork data revealed otherwise.

Following Agier (2011), what is profiled in this global era is a new form of conflict, which sees free circulation and the possibility of finding a new place in the world hindered. The myth of transnational movement enabled by globalization deceives those who decide to take the plunge, only to find themselves stopped by legal restrictions to migration and by the introduction of visas for the non-Shengen member countries. Migrants and asylum seekers alike are rejected at the frontiers or placed in ghettos or end up in the foyers. Are migrants then the real face of globalization in France? Does the landscape of migration map onto that of marginalization, poor housing and instability? Might the foyers de travailleurs migrants (housing for migrant workers), as they are called in France, resonate with this idea of circulation rather than just being quaint forms of living apparently frozen in time? As Kothari (2007) has argued, West African migrants are bringing back the notion of cosmopolitanism, through non-élite strategies of survival in the face of insecurity, which create temporal niches within the wider global phenomenon of migration. Nonetheless, free

21 circulation is granted to goods not to people. This being the case, the capitalist ideal has fully established itself and with it, the inevitable alienation. People are goods; as such, they are sellable, usable and susceptible of being sent back to the sender. Foyer 93 stores its residents, like a warehouse stores its merchandise, stacking them in rooms- dormitories/cells, determining their location and assigning them an expiry date: the residents are expected to leave Foyer 93 in a few years, moving on to either private accommodation or back to their home countries. They are only granted visibility when they come out of their ghettos to embrace the French style of life.

In discussing the myth of return in the 1960s, Quiminal (2002 p. 36) criticized the notion that this could ever be pursued. The village economy relied on the economic input that the migrants‟ remittances provided for both the local economy and the family.

Notwithstanding the increasing number of returns home she witnessed at the time of her article (because of accidents at work, wives sent back by their husbands, retired people), at present, rather than a myth of return, we are witnessing a myth of aller/retour, coming and going. However, the chance to go home and then to come back to France is not given to all.

Many will see that possibility materialize only after periods of even fifteen/twenty years.

Without a visa, nobody will ever attempt the risky journey back to France that some had already endured on their first trip. At Foyer 93, the imam, the délégués (the residents‟ representatives), the entrepreneurs, in sum the privileged ones, can visit home or even decide to return indefinitely to Kayes. The young ones, the most dispossessed ones and, especially, all of the illegal residents, nurture the dream of a visit home, knowing that only a visa will unblock the deadlock, or that a better life in Paris would make the migrants focus less on returning home. In general, the residents of Foyer 93 are transnational

22 migrants, whose mobility is in standby. Thus, the foyers are no longer temporary, but permanent housing solutions at the crossroads of migration, residency, citizenship and integration issues. By showing the residents‟ everyday life in Paris, I attempt to unpack those concepts.

IV. Islam in France or French Islam?

Diasporic trends have now become transnational, where returning migration is less viable, because of the tighter European legislation towards non-EU citizens, and international networks have strengthened. People can in fact only return to their home country when their legal status is cleared, so that many prefer to remain in the liminal space of illegality rather than risking to be refused access on their return to France (personal data). Links with the home country are kept through kinship, religious centres, migrants‟ associations and individually by phone. The current economic recession (euphemistically known as credit crunch) can only have reinforced such a trend. Official national figures indicate the general presence of various ethnic groups living legally in Europe, therefore the majority of these are not accounted for. Nevertheless, they represent one of the “sensitive nerves” of the mobility issue. In France, debates on the naturalization of people of foreign origin and on the “Frenchness” of people of second and third generation born to migrant parents, fuel the public discussion on migration. In many European countries, Islam has now become synonymous with migration. In the light of stricter rules and fears about the national security– especially after 9/11 – Islam is associated with danger, threat, and perhaps promiscuity, with reference to the Muslim endorsement of polygamy; to obscurantism, with the inferior status women are seen to occupy in Muslim societies and with the Muslim supposed refusal of modernity; and with low social status, for many people living in the

23 suburbs and receiving poor education are of migrant origin. Statistics in France cannot document the population‟s religious creed: since the foundation of the French Republic secular and religious domains were to remain separate, and religion would remain in the private realm of human agency, which no survey was allowed to breach. This has not generated more respect for others‟ faiths, but, rather, more suspicion, prejudice and confusion. Paradoxically, this has led religion to have a greater visibility and levels of attention in the public domain! The hypothesis according to which religion would disappear or be privatized (Habermas, 1991) as a result of modernization and secularization processes has not proved to be tenable – see for example the question of the veil in France, of polygyny and Islamophobia following 9/11. Hefner reminds us that the vibrant resurgence of religious movements in the West during the Enlightenment was supported by a “newly urbanized working and middle class” (1998, p. 87). One also recollects Weber‟s analysis of the Protestant ethic (1905) as the central moral basis of rising capitalism, or Gellner‟s (1992), arguing how nationhood corresponded in the West to a secularized and idealized ethnic discourse, while for the Muslims it implied a return to

Islam, through the purification of religion.

France is the country attracting the majority of the francophone West African migration to

Europe, both from rural areas and urban centres, particularly from the Senegal River

Valley, crossing Senegal, Mauritania and Mali. It is estimated that “400,000 migrants from the sub-Saharan Africa reside in France; between 1990 and 1999 the percentage of Malians has increased by 21.2%, the Senegalese population by 28.3%” (Sargent 2009, p. 6). Part of the influx was due to the reunification policy issued in 1975, after the restriction of labour migration. This led to “a process of feminization of migration from West African countries

24 and the appearance of second generation West Africans born in France” (Trauner, 2005).

With the tightening of the family reunifications rules of the “Pasqua” law - after the name of the minister who issued it in 1993 – and surplus of manpower in the economy, migration has become less structural to the French economy, and circular migration is increasingly more difficult to carry out. Moreover, this process has pushed those who once had the right to residence because they were born in France, jus soli, or because they had had legal status before, to become undocumented people, sans-papiers. It appears in fact that between 1997-1998, 41% of Malians and 29% Senegalese people applying for regularization had already had documents allowing them to reside in France (Lessault et al.

2009). Alternatively, illegal migration can be seen as a temporary status in the process of regularization: it was the case for 31% of the migrants who obtained legal status in the period 1999-2006. Overall, Sub-Saharan migration represents only 12% of inward migration to France, so that the media scare stories about the “invasion” of France by migrants from Africa, their illegality and consequent weight on the French Welfare State, are ideologically constructed. Statistics in 1995 reported that 67.4 % of African women are employed against 66.2% of those from the European Union (Trauner, 2005, p. 228). The section of the male migrant population, which my work addresses, lives in the foyers: they total about 150.000 men, spread in 700 foyers, of which 250 are situated in the Île-de-

France region (p. 224).

The moment of social crisis, during which my fieldwork took place (June 2005-June 2006), even though it was potentially a threat to my entire work on Islam and the Soninké Muslim community in the foyer, presented an ideal perspective which enabled me to observe the conflict in action, the positions emerge and the debate develop. The uprisings in the

25 suburbs of France and in the Île-de-France region violently brought the migrant community, both old and new, back in the spotlight and in unmitigated negative terms.

Suburban Paris was equated with disaffected people, generally migrants or of migrant descent, and Muslims. Islam became a synonym of Salafism, used to indicate radical Islam attempting to reform Islam and the West by referring to scriptural understanding of the

Qur‟an and by enforcing strict forms of behaviour and dressing. As shown by the scant anthropological literature on the subject (see chapter eight), the discontent was not voiced in the jargon of Islam though, nor did Muslim leaders, Algerian (the cadis) or West African

(the marabouts), lead or take advantage of the situation. The crisis did not have the characteristics of a movement, but only featured groups of unorganised youngsters who smashed things on the roads and verbally assaulted transport officers and conductors for being the exemplars of the system, which they so randomly fought. The violence of those protesters originated elsewhere.

The rebellions flagged the discontent at the level of the French working class layer, many of whom are indeed Muslim and of migrant descent, and who were aligned symbolically with the new migrants, also Muslims. Thus, a reconsideration of the role of Islam in France was inevitable, going beyond the security issues that the crisis had highlighted. The political agenda implemented positive action in the suburbs to help the youth from disadvantaged boroughs find a job in Paris. They were otherwise generally turned down because of their migrant descent and because they were from the suburbs. The face of

France and the identity of its citizens had to be reconsidered at a national level. The foyers, such as Foyer 93, which could have become hotbeds of resistance and contestation, remained silent and quiescent. Nonetheless, discussions did take place there, reflecting the

26 residents‟ anxieties and hopes about their future in France as Muslims. In France, probably more spectacularly than in other European countries, Islam is the second religion after

Catholicism, counting around five million faithful. Islam is the most visible and discussed issue, in opposition to the idea of laïcité, which insists on pushing one‟s creed into the individual and private sphere. The migrant community in France is defined primarily as

Muslim, thus practising Islam is, per se, a social identity. This undermines the notion that secularism regards people as individuals. My respondents, in fact, claim residency and work permits, decent housing and education, not the right to be Muslims.

France has since the time of its relationship with the colonies in Africa (West Africa and

Algeria) been confronted with Islam. With the formation of French West Africa (Afrique

Occidental Française), comprising what are now the States of Senegal and Mali, France aimed at dealing peacefully with the local Muslim realities in order to obtain their support and cooperation, as Robinson has shown (2000a). Coppolani (1897) initiated anthropological studies on what he defined as Black Islam, central to the understanding and the control of the Muslim countries. Coppolani was posted in Algeria where he worked for the colonial administration, with “a very strong military orientation” (Robinson, 2000b, p.

32). His writings were the main reference for the understanding of Islam in Africa, until postcolonial studies attacked them for being imprecise and ethnocentric. The marabouts,

(the French adaptation of the term murabit), their followers and the phenomenon of Sufi

Islam with their orders, the tariqa, are common knowledge in France. Nonetheless, the issue is no longer the French collusion with Islam put in place in order to dominate the

West African countries and their resources, because migration has brought Islam home, as it were.

The Mouride community has initiated its own interpretation of the tariqa and of Islam, distancing itself from its folkloric tradition depicted by the attribute “black”, since they think themselves to be the bearers of the universal message of Islam, thanks to the teaching of their master and renovator/reformer, CAB. The Soninkés at Foyer 93, on the other hand, are not Sufi, nor following the leadership of a marabout. Their practice of Islam is restricted to the compulsory four pillars of Islam (five daily prayers, almsgiving, the fasting of the month of Ramadan and the pilgrimage to Mecca) and to the observance of the Muslim celebrations (the aϊds and the Prophet Mohammed celebration day). There are of course many variants of Islam, not conveyed by the notion of the Ummah as the worldwide umbrella comprising all of its forms. Even with regards to West Africa and neighbouring communities such as the Wolof and the Soninké, their practice of Islam differs. How French universalism can be fine-tuned to accommodate the varieties of communities that it hosts is the challenge that lies ahead. The issue is not simply Islam versus Catholicism, or illegality versus naturalization. My focus on first-generation migrants is not casual: they are not French and they may be illegal. In debates about assimilation policies, especially after the November 2005 social unrest, France has still manifested an old grudge and fear of Islam and the Muslims: before Independence (1962),

Algerian Muslims were French “with status”. This implied that they had to go through the naturalization process – that is, as foreigners - to lose their Muslim specificity, which subjected them to the African “native code”, since their “customs were incompatible with the Civil Code” (Weil, ibid, p. 217). The vexed question of whether Muslims will ever be fully-fledged citizens and welcome migrants is always obliterated under the banner of the

French Republicanism, which frames the Muslim communities as impossible to integrate

(for their communautarisme, polygyny and so on).

Littlewood‟s analysis (2003) points out how the search for the “other” in anthropology has come to a point of exhaustion crisis, due to the homogenising phenomenon of

Globalization which has rendered the world uniform in “aspirations and mode of thought”

(p. 256). The “other” cannot be found anymore in the idealised romantic image of distant tribes whose practices are unknown and alien to ours, if not in meaning and intentions.

Nonetheless, the Muslim “phenomenon” in France appears to have taken on those characteristics, to become something totally non-Western, anti-progressive and radically different. According to the Universal Human Rights convention, migrants have the right to receive medical treatment in France, regardless of their legal status. This way, Muslim migrants are transformed into bare universal bodies, shorn of social qualifications, which they would obtain, if only they agreed to be individuals, rather than Muslims. In therapy, that is, as patients, migrants have therefore their only chance to become a little less

“exotic”, since they speak the universal language of suffering. Paradoxically, not do only a small number of people of my sample community avail themselves of such an opportunity, but also, what is left unquestioned is precisely the cause of their discomfort.

According to the 1978 law, no official “racial” or ethnic records are kept in France, so that a grasp of the religious and social dimension of the (French) Muslim population cannot, even at a governmental level, be accessed (Laurance et al., 2006, p. 175). I argue that the lack of an ethnic approach to the different social realities in France has only increased differentiation and opposition and transformed Islam into a great melting pot of all differences. My analysis at Foyer 93 attempts to shed light into the residents‟ everyday life, in order to show that even their supposed exoticism, is rather a form of survival in the face of marginality and social exclusion, in which Islam occupies a very marginal position.

V. Organization of the thesis.

In chapter one, I examine the main anthropological sources which relate to West African migration to France and the problem of the integration of “second generation migrants”.

This category was first used with reference to the Algerians and the problem that their children posed as the new Muslims citizens of France. This was in the years following the

1974 law, which closed the doors to migration and family reunions and was the first example of what is now the European utopia of zero migration, implemented by the

Schengen treaty. I provide an overview of the relationship of France with its colonies, in order to understand the way in which it grappled with Islam and Muslims in the colonies, before it became a French domestic issue. The Soninkés are an old migratory group to

France (there are three generations of Soninké descent), which has nevertheless remained in the shadows, notwithstanding the distinguished anthropological work on the subject, which I will assess. In chapter two, I describe the methodological strategies that I have employed in the field and how I resolved to work at Foyer 93. In chapter three, I begin my analysis of the Soninké residents of Foyer 93. I introduce the foyer-space as it was originally conceived and how it presents itself now, in order to ground and give context to the residents‟ narratives and everyday life, which I shared, with the caveats and limitations of being a Catholic woman in a place inhabited by only single male Muslim migrants. The analysis of Foyer 93 continues in chapter four, where I assess the Soninkés‟ practice of

Islam, which is composite and plural. Next to the clerical figure of the leader of prayer

(imam), stand the spiritual leader (marabout) and the iron makers, who both perform divination and are in relationship with the jinn. The latter both claim to practice in the cadre of Islam, either because they are in relationship with Muslim spirits and/or because they employ ritual formulas drawn from the Qur‟an. While within the Mouride community

(the object of the following chapter) a strong Sufi theodicy assigns everyone their role in the community (spiritual and mundane), the same cannot be said for the Soninké community at Foyer 93. The constraints of the foyer create a hybrid tradition, combining village roles with necessity and improvisation. In chapter six, I outline the residents‟ idea of suffering and discomfort, how it is formulated, voiced and embodied. This chapter rounds off the analysis of Soninké migration in Paris by looking at what medical aid is available to them. I focus on French transcultural psychiatry and introduce the work of the

Minkowska Centre. Finally, I draw my conclusions on whether the Soninké migrants‟ demands are met in therapy, given that they have been failed socially already, to reflect on how integration is dealt with in France. In the appendix I describe the legal process required to obtain citizenship and how the 2005 riots were perceived by both the French wider community and the residents of Foyer 93.

Chapter 1

France and Islam: a contested relationship

I. France, Islam and the Ex-Colonies.

As Laurence and Vaisse have shown (2006), the construction of the Grand Mosquée of

Paris has been an attempt to institutionalise and give unity to the plethora of Muslim actors in France, as well “as a gesture of gratitude for the Muslimk soldiers who died fighting for

France in World War I (ibid, p. 101). The colonial African federation, the Afrique

Occidental Française (AOF), which corresponded to contemporary Senegal and Mali, provided soldiers who fought alongside the French. This experience was repeated during

Wold War II and in the post-war years in Madagascar, Indochina and Algeria (Echenberg

1991). Since the traumatic events of independence in the ex-colonies, not only had France to redesign its overseas territories (France d‟outre-mer), but succeeding governments have had to re-contextualize Islam and the Muslim population in France: migration from the ex- colonies had brought and transformed them into a domestic issue. The Conseil du Culte

Musulmane de France was put into place in 2003 by Sarkozy, the then Minister of the

Interior. It features umbrella federations such as the very conservative Moroccan-led UOIF

(Union of Islamic Organizations of France) and the FMCF (National Federation of

Muslims of France), both challenging the dominant Algerian leadership of the Grand

Mosque of Paris, whose rector is also the president of the Conseil du Cult Musulmane de

France (French Muslim Council). The Council was instrumental in incorporating Islam into French territorial policy and preventing foreign funding from interfering with Muslim affairs in France. Since then, the official discourse has sponsored “the goal” of an “Islam of

France” as opposed to an “Islam in France” (Laurence et al., op. cit., p. 138).

Approximately thirty-seven thousand Malian migrants live legally in France, while another

thousand are undocumented migrants, principally in the Paris region (Sargent, 2006, p. 31).

Among West African migrants, a discourse connecting undocumented migrants, the sans-

papiers, to the Senegalese tirailleurs and the Malian veterans, clearly shows the legacy “of

colonialism and decolonization” (Mann, 2003, p. 363). People from the ex-colonies

advance their claims of citizenship and civil rights as a compensation for the blood that

was shed for the Republic. Mann disagrees with the rhetoric of this argument, based on

patron/client relationships and on traditional West African ideas of “trans-generational

mutual obligations” (op. cit., p. 377). In addition to this, Mann judges it counterproductive

to conceive of the “blood debt” as a way of gaining rights, a strategy which he associates

with the far right slogan according to which one has to earn the right to become French.

Debates about citizenship, migration and the right to the jus soli are not new in France. In

August 1996, for example, sans-papiers, predominantly Malians, occupied the church of

Saint-Bernard in the Goutte d‟Or3. They sought refuge after the new legislation denied

them the renewal of their visas, even when many of them had had children in France and

had worked there legally for years. The strike received huge media coverage and public

attention, with French personalities and actors attending the church to give their support

and show their disdain (for the new law). A year later, the anthropologist Catherine

Quiminal chaired a round table on the topic of the sans-papiers. Apart from criticising the

obvious expediency of relying on migration as an economic and cheap input of labour,

Jean Loupe Amselle, who intervened in the debate, pointed to the new racism of France,

which promotes the language of lineage (as a criterion of inclusion), in accordance with the

3The Goutte d‟Or is part of Barbès district (eighteenth borough); its social composition is highly mixed due to the presence of Senegalese, Malian and Northern African people. European French people are a minority here.

Human Genome Project and the revival of regionalism (Benthall, 1997, p. 1). As he pointed out, “The slogan of the French National Front said: “being French is inherited or merited” (ibid).

On the one hand, while France is sensitive to the discourse surrounding its long-standing relationship with the ex-colonies, which it uses to reinforce its political and military presence in West Africa, on the other hand, the historical link purported by West Africans aims at showing a counter logic of inclusion. This would bypass the bureaucratic simplification equating migrants to anonymous sans-papiers by reminding the French audience of the former‟s complex community web, which includes their fathers and forefathers. They are certainly not “strangers to France” (Mann, op. cit, p. 379). During the

2005 riots, Western and Northern Africans voiced their discontent drawing attention to their forefathers‟ role in the reconstruction of France and thus claiming the right to share part of the welfare they contributed to create. It appears that a shift has taken place from legal-historical arguments of historical reparation to others claiming dignity and participation, this way denouncing, as I view it, the accrued marginalization of the migrant population.

French colonial history, migration and Islam often overlap in the way the polity and people‟s imagination conceive of the so-called second generation of migrants in France, as if each of those categories could explain in turn the others. Their past is construed through the lens of French colonial history, responsible for attracting migration flows from its ex- colonies and migrants whose most common feature is their adherence to Islam. The second generation is the category of people of migrant descent who have acquired citizenship in

France when they reach their age of majority, after the ius soli right of the National Code

(reformed in 1987 and then 1993). They are thus French, predominantly of Algerian origin and living in the banlieues, the vast area comprising the whole Île-de-France region and beyond (see chapter 3). They stand for the French realization that migrants are no longer part of the Fordist economic era, wherein return migration allowed migrants to work for limited periods in French industry, and to then return home. Since the closure of migration to France in 1974, migrants have begun a process of accommodation, settling down by themselves first and with their spouses and children (born in the home country) later, under the regulation of the 1986 Pasqua law in family reunions. These people, as Whitol de

Wenden (2005) has put it, are understood as the “minorités ethniques à problème”, the problem minorities (p. 9), normally categorised as the “Arabs” or, to use the slang term which has been increasingly used since the 1980s, the “beurs”. The Beur movement meant the uprising of the Parisian banlieues through the organised action of French youths of

Algerian origin, claiming civil rights and political recognition. Using the term “second generation” is problematic in this context. Firstly, it implies that the new generation replicates the first. Secondly, in this case, strictly speaking, French people of Algerian descent are now the third and even fourth generation (p. 8), and the social and political context they inhabit has changed enormously in comparison with that of their forefathers

(and not always for the better). The symbolism of the “second generation” has nevertheless remained in the French lexicon to indicate a mass of discredited people, living in the banlieues and practising Islam. This also encompasses migrants of West African descent, who are much fewer in number than those of the first group mentioned. In fact, migration from the ex-colonies also entailed flows from Mali, which, as in the case of Algerian migration, has so far generated three or even four generations of migrant descent.

Meanwhile, Senegalese migration to France is a much more recent phenomenon, for which the definition of “second generation” could probably be used more adequately.

Hence, different migration trends have, over time, encountered diverse economic circumstances and, with them, diverse attitudes towards migration. The discourse about migration has gradually shifted from an economic approach to one concerned with the problems of national security and of Islam. This shift was certainly precipitated by the 9/11 event in the USA and its sequels in Madrid (11 March 2004) and London (7 July 2005).

Thus, migration from the ex-colonies is no longer, or not simply, a matter of cultural difference, expressed harmoniously or through clashes, according to Huntingdon‟s analysis, but one which emphasises religion and Islam in particular as the Pandora‟s Box of our time. While internationally, Islam is associated with extremism and terrorism, in

France it is drawn into an oppositional debate in which Muslims, as bearers of religious sectarianism and communautarisme (community drift), infringe the Republican value of secularism, laϊcité. Islam challenges the French Republic by undermining the democratic, liberal and universal fundamentals on which French citizenship lies.

Therefore, what is new in the European debate about migration now, is not so much the suspicion of Islam or the social inequalities migrants experience, but the kind of allegiance to the state required of the “second generation(s)” and the newcomers. Being Muslim is at stake, not only because it suggests that Muslims make demands for the practice of their religion (the building of mosques, halal shops, the ritual slaughter of animals for the aϊd celebrations, Ramadan and Friday prayers which may require the adjustment of work schedules and so forth), but because they frame arguments and provide answers to social

36 issues, according to their religion and customs. This is something that France, liberal, secular and undivided, disavows. As Geisseur (2005) has argued, the quandary does not resonate with the medieval opposition of “crusaders/jihadists” (p. 69), it premises rather on secular and civic presuppositions that by definition and by law, enforced in 1905, entail the separation of the church and the state, of the private and social realms. It is argued that the

Muslims are overstepping this important line, for they are imposing on French society their way of being in the world by proselytizing, dressing differently, practicing polygyny, excising their women, by weighing down on the French social services budget as family benefits claimants (due to their high fertility rate) and so on and so forth. In short, they have invaded the social arena with their private beliefs. What is under way in France and in

Europe is a redefinition of the concept of citizenship through this modern querelle, staging, as it were, enlightened secularists and obscurantist Muslims, now sharing the same nationality. Traditionally, multiculturalism was never advocated in France where, after the

Napoleonic code, the concern has always been towards achieving national unity. The role of the school (as much as that of the army) has had a prime role in the formation of a unified cultural system. The uniformity of shared cultural values to which citizens conform is also what constitutes the basis for an assimilative model of integration, such as the one

France advocates. Thus, Muslims should abandon their customs and embrace a French standard of life (i.e. speak French, attend French schools, abandon the hijab in public spaces and so forth). Only through this process of adaptation, do Muslim communities have a chance to become and to be seen as becoming French citizens.

i. West African Migration to France.

Migration, even though always considered an external phenomenon to France (Rosenberg,

2006), has been structural since the Franco-Prussian wars when the recruitment of new

citizens and thus of soldiers able to fight on the French side4 has become vital. In 1889,

France started perceiving itself as a country of immigration rather emigration, that is when

the nation gave way to the state, the ius soli was introduced and added to the ius sanguinis

principle; England enforced it shortly before France, while Germany did so only in 2000

(Weil, 2008). From Timera (1996), we know that the study of Islam in France coincides

with “the sociology of immigration” (p. 155) from countries where Islam is the dominant

religion, such as the Maghreb and West Africa, France‟s former colonies. Nevertheless,

following the aftermath of WWII up until the 1960s, labour migration was significant in

European countries such as Spain, where Muslim migrants have also become an important

presence, Portugal5 and Italy, and the Maghreb. In 2004, migration from the sub-Saharan

countries represented only twelve per cent of the overall migrant input to France,

notwithstanding its growth from 2000 migrants in 1962 to 570,000 in 2004 (Lessault et al,

2009, p. 1). Sub-Saharan migrants are therefore a minority amongst the general migrant

population in France, as much as they are in Europe. Within the OECD (Organisation for

Economic Co-operation and Development), two thirds of them are found in Europe (63%),

while one-third are in either the United States or Canada (op. cit., p. 3). Overall, there is a

change in migratory strategies towards destinations other than the ex-colonial metropolises.

France is now the second destination after the USA, while Southern Europe countries such

4 The Alsace and the Loraine regions were still German from 1871-1918, after which they were annexed to France. 5The Portuguese community is the largest in France, but this subject has not attracted much attention from social scientists.

38 as Spain, Italy and more marginally Portugal and Greece emerge as new destinations (ibid).

Overall, African migration towards OECD countries is marginal (7.2 million Africans were estimated in 2000, of which 3.4 millions Sub-Saharan migrants in comparison to the overall stock of flows, both to France and worldwide), nonetheless its history and particularly of the Soninkés from the Senegal River Valley (spanning Mali, Mauritania and

Senegal), is long (Gnisci et al., 2006, p. 9). Senegalese migration, promoted by the links of the Mouride brotherhood, founded in Senegal (see chapter five), is more recent, dating from the late sixties and particularly spurred on in the early 1970s by the droughts that affected most of the Sahelian regions. Migration from Senegal outnumbers that from Mali to France. For a breakdown of the statistical overview by nationalities, see the following table:

(see following page)

Main receiving OECD countries excluding Germany (2000s, in thousands).DELSA/OCDE 2000, in: Cross Border Diaries, 2006 Bulletin, p. 10.

The first testimony of the contact between the French and the West African peoples is provided by the sailor Alvarez d‟Almada, who had found in his trip to (what is now)

Senegal in 1594 that the locals spoke good French and some had even been to France

(Diop, 1993a, p. 117). This is without considering the first Muslim presence at Narbonne in the VIII century and the Muslim migrations to the medieval Gaul, which later would become France (Diop, 1993b, p. 245). Nonetheless, Diop distinguishes three phases of the

West African migration to France. The first encompassed the enrolment of African people, including the Soninkés from Mali, the navetans we find in Manchuelle (1997), as sailors recruited by maritime companies serving the West African coasts. This was possible throughout the period from WWI up until WWII, when the introduction of diesel made the unpleasant job of the African coal-trimmers and stokers unnecessary, and preference was instead given to French nationals. “By the 1970s all the Soninké sailors had become postals, waiters” (op. cit, p. 201). It is in the 1960s, with a flourishing economy and the lack of labour force (the Algerian war), that France seems to “discover” its African migrants. A multilateral Pact is signed in 1962 allowing migrants from West Africa free circulation and no restrictions concerning their stay in France and their employment.

Economic agents recruit hands for labour in situ, in the whole region of the Senegal River

Valley (Diop, 1993a, p.118). This is the second phase of the West African migration, called noria or circular migration. Migrants worked for periods of four-five years and then they returned home, while being replaced by their next of kin (younger brother, cousin, brother-in-law and so forth). The third phase is that comprising the movement of

Senegalese students and peddlers (both predominantly affiliated to the Mouride brotherhood, but also to the Tijanyya), together with the new component of refugees from countries such as the Congo, Zaire, Angola and Guinea-Bissau (op. cit, p. 118).

Manchuelle (op. cit) gives an interesting testimony of what is, in his analysis, the Soninké contribution to the first modern form of labour migration, precisely in their recruitment as a low ranking labour force in the French ships. Labour migration, as he defines it, is an

“economically motivated temporary migration”, where “labour migrants are generally young men from rural areas, often unmarried” (op. cit., p. 2). He focuses on the pre- colonial economy of the Upper Senegal River Valley, inhabited then as much as now by the Soninké ethnic group, of the wider Mande linguistic group, also comprising the

Bambara. His work highlights how their flourishing economy, at the centre of the caravan trade between the Bidan (Arabo-Berber) people of the north and Soudanese-Gambian regions to south, allowed them to establish a capitalist-style economy. This implied exchange on the basis of surplus, temporary migration and capitalization (in the form of slaves, which maximised the production). This contravenes the Marxist and postcolonial readings of West African migration to France, and particularly migration from the rural areas now impoverished by the desertification process, as being the result of colonial exploitation and the disruptive presence of colonialism. In reality, Manchuelle shows that migration trends preceded the colonial administration, which, on the other hand, exploited pre-existing Soninké trade routes and markets. The French got involved in the Gambian network, by introducing their clothes, manufactured products and gum in exchange for slaves, whom the Soninké drew from the interior, while they exchanged gold and kola nuts respectively from Bambuxu and the North-western Ivory Coast; and with the Bidan, the

Soninkés exchanged their grains (millet and sorghum) and cloth (both produced by their slaves) for salt and livestock. The latter was the “desert-side” trade, which sustained all the others. The Soninké migrations to these regions were carried out during the dry season, before returning to the Upper Senegal River homeland, where they worked the fields to

41 produce the grains, the currency, as it were, for their trading and thus for their labour migrations. The Soninkés‟ enrolment in the French ships was then the latest phenomenon of such migratory trends. The participation of the Soninké sailors in the intellectual Negro

Movement under the “Ligue de Défence de la Race Nègre, controlled by the Garveyist and

Soninké Emile Faure” (op. cit, p. 199), during the inter-war period, testifies to both their settlement in France and to their significant weight in the migratory scene, as willing economic agents.

Hence, even though classic economic understandings of the migratory trends from West

Africa in terms of simple push and pull factors may not always explain all the reasons laying behind the decision to migrate, it is also true that the economy of the Soninké homeland and of Senegal have declined due to the changes in climate and the impoverishment of the land. With regard to Senegal and in particular to the Mouride brotherhood, the works by Robinson and Copans, which I address more lengthily in chapter five, also outline the importance of the Mouride “colonization” of new lands, in the strengthening of this Sufi order, where the marabout‟s faithful, the talibés, worked the land for their marabout. The colonists accommodated such trends by exploiting their work in peanut cash crop production, which was then exported to France. According to Cruise

O‟Brien (1971), such forced orientation of the local economy towards the sole production of peanuts is the cause of the former‟s disruption (monocultures deplete the soil more rapidly and enhance the desertification process).

Riccio‟s work also follows Manchuelle‟s line of argument (2001; 2003), in that it sees the

Senegalese, and Mouride Diaspora in particular, as not merely a response to global

42 capitalism, but a “distinctive culture of migration” (Riccio, 2003, p. 2), wherein transnational business networks are established between Italy (his focus of investigation) and Senegal. Pivotal to the Mourides‟ success abroad is their philosophy of work, which translates their spiritual eponymous teachings. CAB, founder of the Mourdyya in Senegal, emphasized the relationship of the spiritual leader, the marabout (as the French called them), with his follower, the talibé. Unlike other Sufi branches, CAB made this relationship unique and absolute. The Mouride marabout was the only master of the talibé‟s life, a relationship which, as Copans has shown (1980, p. 164), also reflected the traditional values of the Senegalese Wolof ethnic group, such as the social stratifications

(i.e. master/slaves) and its forms of production. The talibés worked for the marabout in the daara (original rural circles where the faithful gathered to learn the master‟s teaching and where their work was considered as prayer) and put their life in the marabout’s hands, like a corpse in those of death (Mouride motto) or as another saying goes, as the marabout‟s slaves.

The Mouride ethic of work, emphasized by the Mouride training and discipline learned when young in the daara or the dahira (urban circles) of Senegal, has given the Mouride diaspora the dynamism, intra-aid support and solidarity necessary to settle in the host societies in the destinations to which they migrated. Riccio emphasizes, as much as

Schmidt di Friedberg (1994) and Carter (1997), that these elements of the Mouride

Diaspora now spanning the world over, where community, kinship and religious elements have been put to use to establish trustworthy business contacts enabling them to buy, sell and transfer all the merchandise they retail in Italy, Senegal and elsewhere. Each migrant can at the same time be a wholesaler, retailer and exporter (Ebin 1992; 1996), counting on

43 the networks that the Mourides guarantee between themselves (horizontal link) reinforced vertically by the affiliation to the same dahira, or marabout or even Mouride corporation

(Bava, 2004). Riccio also suggests that while Mouride networks facilitate the Mouride‟s entry into new countries of migration and into business (the first merchandise is bought by one‟s peers, or the money provided to that effect), anyone‟s success is nonetheless individual and at one‟s own risk, so that a discourse on solidarity intertwines with one of autonomy and self-realization. Community and individualist values are deployed at the same time in the migrants‟ transnational strategies. Thus Riccio argues for a disaggregation of both the concepts of culture and transnationalism, because both actors and their strategies are heterogeneous and multilayered. Their lives across borders are neither defined once and for all, nor always reproducing identical trajectories, which often are the result of practical circumstances. For transnationalism he then suggests the idea of “linkage rather than a unitary phenomenon” (2003, p. 100), since networks are much more fluid abroad than in the home country: Mouride solidarity linkages may also benefit adherents to the Tijanyya and vice versa, as it is the case in France (ibid).

Grillo et al. (2004) frame the concept of transnationalism with regards to the Senegalese and Malian migration to France and Italy through its “interrelationship with development”

(p. 1). In fact, in France and more recently in Italy, migrants‟ associations have become the new focus for the economic advancement of the developing countries concerned. In France such effervescence (Diop, 2000, p. 4) was the result of the 1981 law, lifting the ban on the migrants‟ right to form associations. Such law gave way to the emergence of a plethora of migrant associations, including religious ones (not previously sanctioned by the 1901 law on the separation of the State and the Church, which stipulates the non-involvement of

State funding for religious associations, which were regulated instead by the 1905 law).

The novelty of these associations lies in the centrality of the migrants‟ developmental projects, beyond the bilateral programmes of the states concerned or of NGOs‟ initiatives

(Grillo, op. cit). France has been the ground-breaking country to focus on this phenomenon, especially by anthropologists such as Timera (1996), Daum (1995) and

Quiminal (1991). The latter has carried out research into the Soninkés‟ associations, which have created enduring links with the local organisations working on the ground in France and in particular in the Parisian region of Saint-Denis, for the development of Mali and

Senegal. Quiminal sums up such translocality through the idea of ici et la-bàs (here and there), which paraphrases the title of her seminal work. Thus, French municipalities have established agricultural projects (such as the GRDR through its irrigation project in the

Senegal River Valley) in combination with the associations of migrants (from the same village or from different villages co-operating together), working in France for the benefit of Mali. An example is the Soninké association Gidimaxa Jikké (Jikké means hope), which created health centres, training schemes and so forth in the circle of Kayes (Grillo, op. cit, p. 3). France wholeheartedly supports these grand schemes, because they may potentially create the conditions to develop the sending regions such as the Senegal River Valley and thus reduce the need to migrate (to France), over and above the obvious economic return that these projects provide to the participants. Daum (op. cit) contends that Malian migrants are a real factor in the development of their regions, while Quiminal (1993) asserts that such economic development may in the future indeed induce the local people of the region to stay. Notwithstanding the statistical marginality of West African migration to

France, as we have seen, virtually every Soninké family in the Senegal River Valley has at least one member who is a migrant (Timera, op. cit, p. 62). There is not a consensus as to

45 whether or not such an economic influx actually reinforces the vicious circle of migration, because of the migrants‟ remittances (Lavigne Delville, 1991), which have increased over time (Sarr, 2009). Nonetheless, of central importance is the way that West African migrants have responded to global economic and political challenges (e.g. the tightening of migration laws) by becoming primary agents in the progress of their home countries through the cooperation of the receiving countries. In this global era the salience of migration has made the understanding of economic strategies and cultural issues paramount. In France, as throughout the West, migration trends from Muslim countries have made Islam the focal point through which new political configurations and discourses shape multiculturalism. It is through my respondents‟ case studies that I will show how this plays out on the ground.

II. Multiculturalism, integration and Islam.

Over at least the past decade, multiculturalism has become part of the European political agenda concerning the definition of its political/cultural identity, in which Islam can be the grounds for a denial of EU membership for security reasons. Such has been the case of

Turkey (Whitol de Wenden, 2005, p. 1). While the Constitution of the European

Community opened up a process of inclusion and expansion, each country has created its own internal distinctions as to what citizenship should be and to whom it should be granted. The distinction between what is external and internal has blurred (ibid) in the face of the Muslim communities claiming citizenship and equal rights. Even though the first step to the inclusion and recognition of the Muslim communities is the institutionalization of the Muslim faith (Amiraux, 2005, p. 83), which occurred in France in 1929 with the foundation of the Council of the French Muslim Faith, the matter is not solely legal, but

46 deeply steeped in the social and cultural habits which those institutions represent. In fact, the Muslim community in Europe has claimed the principle, through the imam Tareq

Oubrou, who is also president of the Association of Imams of France, of a shari’a for the minority groups, advocating the self-regulation of Muslim minority groups in the nation states where they live as citizens or migrants (Frégosi, 2005, p. 108). Not dissimilar is the

European Council of Fatwas and Research founded in 1997 in Great Britain, equipped with two regional commissions - in the UK and France (op. cit., p. 107). Furthermore, Muslim minority groups have become economic actors, for example in Germany where self- employed Turks have raised their own small-scale enterprises (Pécoud, 2004), so that a kind of multiculturalism rooted in economic viability has been put forward. Yet again however, the openness of global markets, and the mobility of people, conflicts with the internal regulations of each country, serving to reinforce the sovereignty of the Nation

States, rather than dissolving them, as the former would imply. Moreover, migration and the settlement of migrants in Europe and worldwide, do not only bring successful entrepreneurs or intellectuals, the brain drain phenomenon, but also people in search of a better life, so that elite migrants are but a small minority of the total.

Islam, with about five million Muslims, is now the second religion in France, after

Catholicism and before Protestantism, Judaism and Buddhism. The Muslim revival and organization of Muslim institutions of the 1980s has been interpreted in various ways.

Certainly, the sedentarization of the Muslim migrant population has played an important role (Timera, op. cit), but so also has the impact of the Iranian revolution and of the new

Muslim era: November 1980 coincided with the XV century of the Hegira (Diop, 1993b, p.

248). In France, Muslim associations are extremely composite in nature, due to ethnic and

47 inspirational trends, and generally organized under umbrella federations. Diop describes

(2000) how the Union of Islamic Organizations of France, created in 1983, groups mainly

Moroccan and Tunisians; the National Federation of Muslims of France, created in 1985, has as its base Moroccan Muslim workers and businessmen. The Turkish organisation is made up of four sub-groups, ranging from moderate to more radical and of extreme right- wing inspiration (such as the Muslim Union of Cultural Centres of Europe). The

Federation of the Muslim Association of Africa, Comoros and the Antilles, which became a French Federation in 2000, is confined to the Parisian region. The missionary and community-based movement, Tabligh, established in France in 1970, has split into two sub-groups. Moreover, beyond a plethora of Muslim student associations, is finally the phenomenon of turuq, Sufi orders, organised ethnically amongst the Turkish and Kurdish

(the Naqchibandyya and Betachiyya), African (the Tijianyya, Qadriyya and Mouridyya) and Maghrebian (Tijianyya, Isawiyya and Alawiyya) communities (Diop, op. cit., pp. 24-

5).

Muslim minority groups in France and in Europe have been the object of racism and discrimination, often because their groups correspond to the outcast proletariat of the great cities, where they are lumped together and where education, access to services and decent housing are impaired. In France, a policy of positive action has been implemented since the

1980s in the ZEPs (Zones of Priority Education), the banlieues, where pedagogic and, in the 1990s, social insertion programmes aimed at the “integration” of these groups (Wihtol de Wenden, 2005, p. 13). This way, the acknowledgment of the existence of social and ethnic groups in France has come through the recognition of their social malaise and thus through their stigmatization. The historical background to this dates from the 1960s, when

48 the housing crisis and the baby boom brought about the construction of big built-up areas for cheap housing (Habitation à Loyer Moderé), after Le Corbusier‟s popularized model, where young couples settled and started their new life (ibid). Then migrants from West

Africa and the second generation of Algerians robustly ethnicized these territories, making them less appealing to the French middle class: the français de souche, as they are normally referred to, who gradually started deserting these areas, which were now attracting only migrants from the bidonvilles and the run-down areas of the Metropolis.

The reconfiguration of the Île-de-France region is thus, a world where the unblemished rigor of class and race works to make these areas the lost territories of the Republic, as

Brenner (2002) famously sketched them.

The Republican model, according to which the State only recognises individuals beyond their community-based representations, bypasses the race taboo by definition. In modern terms, this equates to the obliteration of multiculturalism. However, the emergence of communitiesissues de la migration, born out of migration, has brought about the rethinking of the French national identity. Muslim minority groups, guilty of introducing their communautarisme through customs and Islam, the one the synonym of the other, defy the

Republican model, which is liberal, democratic and secular in nature. These fundamentals were the crux of the political debate about access to citizenship and the reform of the

National Code (from 1987 to 1993). In the course of the debate, these fundamentals were reasserted with renewed enthusiasm and strength in the face of allegedly unwarrented

Muslim claims. 1989 was the year of the foulard affaire, followed by the foundation of the

Haute Conseil à l‟Integration in 1991, called to decide the criteria by which identity (of origin, religious and civic) corresponded to the French model (Kastoryano, 2006, p. 58). In

1993, the minister Pierre Joxe transformed the Muslim affair into a more sensible religious

question, so that the CORIF, Conseil de Réflexion sur l‟Islam en France, was formed. This

would later give way to the first minister Nicolas Sarkozy‟s attempts to create the Conseil

du Cult Musulmane de France (French Muslim Council) in 2003, transforming the

Ministry of the Interior into the main reference point for Muslims in France (Frégosi, 2005,

p. 101).

Unfortunately, the Stasi Commission (from the name of the minister who chaired it),

suggested the ban of (the wearing of) the veil in schools, then implemented by the 2004

law. Up until recently, the General Assembly has been considering the matter6. The

principle which motivated such resolution, that is, to allow Muslim girls to participate in

the rationalist and progressive ideals of the Republic, as opposed to cultural traditions

which their fathers would impose on them, will probably induce them to stay indoors

altogether so as not to contravene the rule of hijab (covering). Central to the indictment, is

the institutional role of the school, which, since the Napoleonic era, was endowed with the

role of assuring national unity and social order. From Carter (1997) we know that schools

are the “most complex sites in contemporary capitalist societies”, since it is precisely there

that “ordering ideas” are forged, where “the contours of life of each member are

negotiated, transformed and lived”.

In his analysis, this becomes particularly salient with respect to the migrant population in

Italy, who are embodied into society according to the schema of the ordering system or

system of difference, as he defines it. In Italy, in fact, difference is identified through race,

6 On 14 April 2011 the bill prohibiting “facial dissimulation in public places” is eventually issued. 50 first between the Italians of the North and those of the South, the former supposed to be racially superior to latter, and then between Italians and the newcomers. The way national identity has been constructed reproduces in the ways in which migrants to Italy are perceived. Italy has for centuries been a country of emigration, particularly of the people in the Southern regions moving to the more industrially and economically rich North (this still holds), to Switzerland and to the United States. Moreover, notwithstanding the regrettable period of its imperial campaigns in Ethiopia, Somalia and Libya, which brought violence and shame, Italy has never achieved the position of colonial power in Africa, as

France and Britain have. This has induced Italians to think of themselves as “good people” and Christians, living by the sweat of their brow in Italy when this was possible or elsewhere when famine swept Southern Italy and parts of the North East in the 1850s.

Carter identifies another form of systemic difference as that of class, which originated in the social distinction of the signori (aristocrats) and the ordinary people. Such division is now present in a cultural fashion, so that education through schooling is the way through which regional differences are overcome and the Italian language is accessed at all level of society. However, the Lega Nord (separatist party of the North) advocated in the 1980s and even recently, that the North should introduce its vernacular in the school syllabi, since the

North is proud of its roots and race (sic) and is engaged in the battle against those of the

South and the migrants, who are confronted with racist judgments and exploitative measures. Senegalese migration to Italy has been a cultural shock representing what Italy had become: it was now a wealthy and productive country, no longer sending but receiving migrants from all over the world.

Schimidt de Friedberg (1994) pointed out how the Mouride networks have provided mediation between Italian society and these Sufi migrants, whose philosophy of work and prayer has dynamically integrated them into the host society, in what she perceives to be a process of “soft integration”. The Mourides in Italy, as much as elsewhere, have been able to find in their order the cultural references enabling them to feel at home even in the

Diaspora, wherein their religious affiliation has become a socially recognised interlocutor.

A few municipalities, such as that of Bergamo, a middle-size industrial town of the North, has institutionalised a day in honour of CAB, on the 6th of June, during which the representatives of the Mouride community and of the town of Bergamo (the mayor, prefect and so forth) meet. The event has a great impact in the Mouride milieus, which look at these examples as a sign of overture and hope. Unfortunately, recent events of racism

(summer 2008) and the tightening of migration laws during the Berlusconi government have blocked such optimistic flows. The discourses I heard at the commemoration day in

Bergamo a few years ago by the Mourides and those they express now point to diametrically opposite perceptions: the first saw Italy as a new country of migration, whose

Catholic people are good and sympathetic to others, thus confirming the view Italians hold of themselves. The second depicts Italy as a racist country, where it is now difficult to find a job (even informal ones), housing and respect (personal data, summer 2007).

III. The Soninkés in the literature.

Pollet and Winter (1971), Manchuelle (1997) and Timera (1996) have shown how the

Soninké extended family is also a productive unit, the ka. Nonetheless, it was Manchuelle who demonstrated the nature of its economic structure, the hierarchical organization of the

Soninké society and the role of migration within it, as seen above, which, contrary to the

52 general understanding of West African migration, was anterior to the droughts of the

1970s. In fact, emerging anthropological literature now individuates migration trends from

West Africa beyond a mechanical response to the coercive force of colonial taxation initially and that of forces of nature later. Mobility in Africa is indeed a key feature as well as an economic strategy, “historically embedded in Sahelian cultures, marked by a high degree of opportunistic” choices (De Bruijn et al., 2001, p.65). Soninké society is segmentary, that is, divided by clan rivalries for the acquisition of power, and based on the control over family lands. Each family head, the kagumme, and leader of the ka (productive units, made of different households of one same lineage), is the oldest member of the lineage, which branches into different households, each contributing to the wealth of the ka. The organization of work is distributed between the main field, where the ka gumme works with the help of sons for the main part of the day, and the individual plot, the saluma, in which anyone works for the rest of it. Women also work their lands to supplement the main courses (such as cereals) with side ingredients (such as peanuts), which are instead provided by the men of the ka (Manchuelle, op. cit, p. 31). In the past, work in the fields was carried out mainly by slaves, which as seen above, were also the currency of exchange to obtain goods or help during migration along the caravan routes on the desert side or in the southern regions.

The distinction between “state and stateless societies is conventional in Africa”

(Manchuelle, op. cit., p. 15). Bureaucratic apparatuses traditionally remain very elementary even when the state is in place, and it is the royal clan and its clients who ensure that it functions effectively. In non-state societies, the royal clan constitutes a greater number of lineages in competition for power. When a clan manages to impose itself over the others,

53 the state mode is then summoned again. This applied to the Soninké up until the nineteenth century, when the royal clans exerted two forms of power: the laada and the jonghu. The first meant that clients (the griots, the singers of the family epic; the forgerons, the iron makers who were also responsible for carrying out circumcision, and the marabouts or clerics) participated in the royal family rituals. The second was an oath binding families to protect each other. Royal families were not the only ones to have clients attached to them: the nobles had their clerics (the marabouts), caste families and slaves (ibid). Competition for power is the mark of segmented societies, where the land is the main source of wealth and is the founding element of a lineage, since through its distribution and productivity families can live and establish their households. For Manchuelle, building a clientele was central to this endeavour and was only possible through “generosity and prestige” (op. cit, p. 19), both made possible by wealth and “generalised exchange, such as favours, intermarriage and gifts (op. cit, p. 17). In the Senegal River Valley, wealth was provided by agriculture and by “seasonal trading expeditions, that is, periodic return migration” (op. cit, p. 14). The Soninkés were the first jula, itinerant merchants of West Africa. This information undermines both the colonial idea of an African subsistence economy in the region and the notion of migration as the result of uprooting. The Soninké empires succeeded from the twelfth century until the eighteenth century. In the nineteenth century they were restricted to forming segmentary states and independent villages and towns, under the rule of important clans. By then, the Soninkés were surrounded by the powerful

Bambara and Bidan people, even though their economic viability in the region rested unchanged (op. cit, p. 14).

The relative stability of the central state authority emphasised in turn the internal political organization of the villages, through hierarchical family power structures. The village, like the kingdom, was also segmentary, thus internal rivalries for power were present, where younger members aspired to overturn the leader, who would be the oldest in the village

(op. cit., p.19). The chief of the village had his cohort of elders, who in more recent terms were defined as the sages. Manchuelle outlines that villages tended to be socially homogenous, in that one social group dominated. Thus, one could find royal villages, maraboutic ones, villages of artisans and so on. Warriors of non-maraboutic families, because marabouts could not be chiefs, headed the marabout villages (ibid). Naturally, even though such hierarchies have formally disappeared in what is now the Republic of

Mali, the village structure has remained true to traditional custom, and is adhered to by the villagers. Nominally, for example within the community of my investigation at Foyer 93, people of slave descent are given specific tasks (generally menial ones), as I will show in chapter four, as much as the marabouts and the sages keep their traditional functions.

Timera‟s work (1996), one of the few monographs existing on the Soninké in France, seems to continue where Manchuelle left off. He analyses the Soninké Diaspora in France, through a comparison between the members of the community residing in the foyers (male migrants‟ housing) and those who have moved on and settled outside it in private accommodation, generally with their families. The strength of Timera‟s study is in the way he addresses the village community left behind in Kayes, from where both groups of the

Soninké (those of the foyers and of the individual accommodations) come from and towards which they orient their lives. The village structure of the kagumme still holds, for migrants in France send their remittances back home to pay for the improvement of their

55 village, through developmental programmes for agriculture, health and education. Such migratory projects reinforce the group hierarchies already in place, both in the home country and in France. The elderly and the young, the clerics and the lay people and even people of slave descent reproduce old statuses and roles, while adapting them to the modern diasporic situation. Migration has engendered a soothing of hierarchical rigidities in order to respond to the new demands of the community abroad. In fact, young people and the elderly occupy the same social positions in France, for they are both either workers in industry or engaged in other menial work. Timera underlines the impact of this insertion into the job market, since many people from Kayes were rural workers who, after migration, have become members of the urban working class and the new promoters of progress for their villages. Such trends have certainly enhanced the individual‟s skills and allowed for a new type of entrepreneurship over community values and shared life.

Meanwhile, those who have moved to private accommodation with their spouses and children, through family reunion, have opted out of community life. The standard model of the Soninké traditional migration would expect migrants to leave their spouses in Kayes, with the expectation that they would return there eventually. This way, notwithstanding the subtleties implied by these decisions, those who live a family life in France are at the same time also moving away from village life, in fact settling in France as citizens themselves or at least allowing their children to become citizens in the future (when they become adults, according to the 2003 law).

IV.My contribution.

As Modood (2006) has pointed out, the Muslim community has been central in Britain in the critique of liberal ideas of racial equality towards a more nuanced multiculturalism

based on the right to one‟s difference, including religious difference. In Britain, in fact,

colour and race constituted the only grounds for illegal discrimination and racism until

2003, when an offence to religious discrimination was introduced (p. 38). Modood casts

Muslim assertiveness in the wider political ferment of identity movements such as

feminism, gay pride and so on, which go against universalistic conceptions of justice and

of the individual. Similarly in France, Foucault and Derrida‟s anti-essentialism was used to

attack hegemonic formulations of gender, class and so forth (p. 40). This way, the

integration of the Muslim communities in France fits in with feminist ideas of difference,

separate development and integration. Nevertheless, none of my Muslim respondents

(neither at the Mouride mosque nor at Foyer 93) would ever formulate their thinking in

feminist or gay terms, which they very firmly rejected. They take on instead a universalist

outlook (open to various interpretations), which does not provide answers to many societal

issues (i.e. gender equality, homosexuality or even integration) and reinforces or is in

keeping with Republican universalism (against which “identity groups” position

themselves). On the other hand, other movements such as “Ni Putes Ni Soumises”7

“discount the possibility of a Muslim feminism”, while depicting Muslim “men as

oppressors” (Heine, 2011, p. 27). Being Muslim has become a social identity per se, rather

than an identity within the articulation of specific social and religious matters, towards

which Islam could offer its solution or principles. Especially after September 11, 2001, the

loyalty of Muslim diasporic groups (settled minority groups and migrants) has been

questioned, based on the perception that Al-Qaida is a transnational network of Muslim

activists (Werbner, 2004, p. 461). However, the institutionalization of an Islam of France,

through the Conseil du Cult Musulmane de France, is a building block in minority groups‟

7 Ni Putes Ni Soumises (Neither whores nor saints) is the name of the Muslim Feminist group fighting for the recognition of the Muslim women‟s rights, both within their community and in the wider French society. 57 allegiance to France. In fact, as the author continues, living in the Diaspora is ultimately a constant negotiation of “the parameters of minority citizenship” (Werbner, op. cit, p. 471).

Moreover, Islam is the issue with respect to the integration of Muslim migrants, since the latter‟s allegiance is argued to be either towards their country of origin or towards Muslim tenets, thereby overriding Republican laws. For example, the ordre public international français (French international law on public order) establishes the terms by which foreign laws can be refuted. Brunet (2010) discusses the French reception of four Islamic family laws, also the most contested ones in France, namely: polygynous marriage, repudiation

(by a husband of his wife), the prohibition for a natural father to recognise his child born out of marriage and the prohibition against adoption. She argues that the position of the

French judges is proximiste, that is, open to moderate relativism in order not to disqualify foreign rules unless these have too close a relationship with French territory. Vis-à-vis matrimonial and familial statuses that have been acquired in foreign countries (including polygyny), the French legal system can advocate that they contradict the French international legislation on public order or simply reject the foreign decision on the basis that it is not applicable under the French law. This transforms French international law on public order into an exception of international law governing both the relationship between states and private rights (ibid). The attitude that the gravity of a problem (social, legal and so forth) depended on the effects it could have on fundamental French principles and on security, also influenced policing in the banlieues during the 2005 riots. The police de

proximité (police of proximity) were instructed to patrol the rioting boroughs from a

distance as demanded by security concerns8.

One might be tempted to argue that such distance is inherent to the concept of assimilation,

which premises the unconscious internalizing of norms, as opposed to the conscious

processes the individual undergoes in the process of integration (Noiriel, 1992). These are

in fact the two classic theories of integration, one positing adaptation or conformism to the

shared good, the other separate development. As Safi (2006) indicates, the first can be

identified with the Chicago School, with exemplars such as Park and Burgess (1921), and

Bateson (1935), while the second to the triadic model of segmented assimilation - or of

differential integration with Zehraoui (1996) - as conceptualized by Portes et al. (1989;

1993a and 1993b). The separate development model seems to be more appropriate to gauge

the process of integration of minority groups, whose integration may result differently

according to the determinants and nationalities taken into consideration. For example,

social or human capital may help the individual gain economic viability and cultural

assimilation differently, according to the community considered. Referring to Tribalat who

provides the only quantitative data existing in France on the subject, Safi (2006, p. 30)

takes the case of West Africans and Algerians who present a strong element of mixing

(cultural, marriage, housing etc), but also have little social capital. This situation is

exemplified by Portes‟s second model of integration, called downward integration (1995),

which he found within the black community in the USA. Safi (op. cit., p. 7) argues in

favour of the segmented model because it may answer both multiculturalist (against the

8 The police de proximité might correspond to the British community police, even though the concept lying behind it is radically opposite. In the French case, the “community” (generally Muslim) is conceived as the enemy from which the police have to shield, while in the UK the police are part of the community, thus they work for and within it. 59 idea of a unified cultural system) and structuralist (according to which society exhibits different social classes and inequalities) understandings of integration, especially when different national groups are involved. Portes‟s triadic model of segmented assimilation puts forward the following situations: the first is the classic and Republican idea of integration, maintaining that the individual should conform to both the economic and cultural values of the host community, which serve as signs of his successful integration and thus of his upward mobility (thus the community dimension is obliterated). Sayad

(1979) underlines the ethnocentric and colonial heritage (1999) of such an approach, which frames the migrant‟s ethnic background as one hindering the migrant‟s full integration. In

France, the aforementioned Western and Northern African communities exemplify Portes‟ second model of segmented integration, while the Portuguese exemplify his third model, characterised by economic viability, but also strong community bonds and little mixing

(Safi, op. cit., p. 8).

Thus, in what sense are the residents of Foyer 93 important to the current anthropological work on Islam in France? Are they an example of transnationalism as Grillo pointed out?

Do they reintroduce the problem of the sans-papiérs into the public debate about racism or about the marginalization of the second generation migrants? It is impossible to avoid these issues when addressing migration from the ex-colonies such as Senegal and Mali.

Nonetheless, my work intends to show how migrants from the rural areas in the region of

Kayes remain a non-subject, an invisible and silent group of people, whose marginalization is not casual, but rather constructed and rooted in the assimilative Republican model of integration.

My respondents are seen as Muslims, rather than as migrants seeking accommodation and work in France. However, they express their malaise in social, medical and existential terms, rather than in Muslim ones. They do not ask for better prayer rooms, leave from work during the month of Ramadan, or greater institutional representation and visibility.

As seen above, Muslim communities in Germany are attempting to make their rights heard in the courts, appealing to the universality of Human Rights. Meanwhile medical care for all, including illegal migrants, is a universal principle in France. Curiously though, the human and social dimensions, which may be conducive to suffering and alienation, are put into brackets. By addressing the foyers as places of marginalization and exclusion, I intend to shed light on the individual, social and fragmented realities (inhabited by my respondents) that the French universalism obscures. Why can migrants‟ social discomfort only emerge as serious issues in medical settings, or at times of social crises? Why is it that discussions about Islam do not express multiculturalism, or Muslim ways of being in the world, other than reflecting distorted images of grotesque run-down housing, colourful traditional ways of dressing and social malaise?

The associations working on the ground for migrants‟ rights to housing and mental health provision have initiated a counter discourse about the need to reconsider the latter‟s social and legal status as factors impinging on their quality of life and wellbeing. The first do so by playing the role of mediators between the residents and the mayor, fighting on their side in order to give the foyers the status of a social residency, over which the residents have the right to their privacy and dignity. The second, attempt to bring into therapy the cultural and social dimensions of the patient, assuming both as variables, rather than as determinants, as against the cultural determinism of the old school transcultural psychiatry. For both, the

61 hypothesis is that migrants in France are confronted by a new reality and that their stay will force them to adapt and respond in various ways. Neither medical nor housing associations offer to reproduce what the migrant has left behind, but suggest instead a compromise, another chance and an adjustment. Change is the core concept in transcultural psychiatry in

France, since migrants can reinvent their life, beyond the expectations of the family and of the village, and against cultural codes that may be found to be oppressive. In therapy, migrants have the potential to find that compromise. Housing associations, on the other hand, promise to ameliorate their stay in France, by helping them through the bureaucratic processes and negotiations with the administration. Nevertheless, the number of people from the foyers availing themselves of these medical services is miniscule: there are just a few cases of people who have eventually disappeared during the course of the therapy or have opted out. The reasons are unknown and the patients‟ profiles are not analysed. The race, social status and religious practice of the patients are not only sensitive data, but unavailable data by law. Even during the patients‟ assessment, this kind of information is downplayed. The associations working in the foyers depend on state funding and the political will of the moment. The residents draw an enormous benefit from the input provided by the good will of a few social workers who often work over-time or unpaid.

Ethnic monitoring in France is against the droit commun, because it contravenes its objectivity and impartiality. Nevertheless, in the latter‟s name it is possible to stigmatize

Muslim minority groups for their practise of Islam and to interpret their ghettoization in terms of community drift. By bringing back the attention to the foyers and their enclave, my anthropological analysis intends to be a contribution to migration studies in Europe by considering the reception of a Muslim and West African community in France.

Transnationalism, even though it is the conceptual tool now in vogue in relation to migratory flows, made my respondents sceptical. In France, rather than a conscious choice, it is the consequence of tightened migration rules, increasing further the number of sans- papiérs and their social discontent. As one resident commented:

“Once we were seasonal migrants, then returning migrants, now we are transnational. Well, we just hope to go home, from to time to time, and come back. Those who can go back are lucky!”

In summary, the existing literature on West African migration to France has shown the conflicting relationship of France with the Arab/Muslim world. In the colonies, this has meant a moment of antagonism and oppression, until, especially in Mali and Senegal, the role of the spiritual leaders became central to the French “path of accommodation”, after

Robinson‟s definition. Secondly, the Muslim communities have become the focus of anthropological literature particularly after the closure of migration to France in 1974, when it became clear that migrants had come to stay. The second-generation migrants generated a debate about citizenship and nationality, which intensified in the 1980s, during the amendments to the nationality code and with the emergence of the Beur movement.

The banlieues became the contested areas over which the Republic was losing its control and which even the français de souche (working class French people) had started deserting.

The foyers continued to host different waves of migrants on an ethnic basis. According to the classic theory of integration/assimilation explored above, the longer the group‟s migratory history is, the better they should have integrated. West African migrants in

France disprove this theory, and, in fact, the explanation can be found in the segmented model of integration. This has shown how longer time in the host country may increase the 63 gap between the host and receiving communities (Safi, op. cit). Tribalat‟s work has addressed the social exclusion of the migrant population through the study of migrants‟ unstable housing solutions. In this sense, the foyers are central. Beyond romantic ideas of migrants‟ transnational networking between France and their home country, of revenue- making through remittances and development projects, I intend to show the day-to day living of the residents at Foyer 93 and the impasse they experience, where neither translocality nor settlement is possible. The stagnation of Foyer 93 reflects the contemporary French distrust of their Muslim migrants and, in turn, my respondents‟ uncertainty about their future. Solidarity modes are hardly maintained, class divisions are dissolving into the homogenising status they share as migrants who are deprived of their prime characteristic: their mobility. The migrants‟ suffering has only recently come to the attention of social workers, associations and psychiatrists, who interestingly are denouncing the French need for social cleansing and resolution. The colonial past is still a sensitive nerve in the Republican thought. This way, citizenship and national identity are at the centre of debates surrounding migration, yet they lack vision, and meanwhile the migrant community suffers the consequences of the French denial of its own colonial past.

Assimilation in France equates to a way of regulating space and people according to the closeness and visibility by which Muslims and migrants are perceived to undermine the fundamentals of the French republic. Thus, the public exhibition of religious signs in schools (the veil affair) and the riots of people of migrant descent in the banlieues are dealt with when they are perceived to irrupt into the public sphere. During the 2005 crisis, the problem of the suburbs of Paris and of French citizens of migrant descent living there became a concern for the government and motivated positive action in those boroughs. No mention was made of the foyers, which continue to exist in their state of segregation.

Already in 1967, Foucault talked of heterotopias (Of Other Spaces: Utopias and

Heterotopias9), that is, of spaces, which by contrast to utopias, with no real place in the

world, talk of all other places by subverting and overturning them all. Heterotopias are

cemeteries, reminding the living ones of death, of time rupture and decomposition. From

the nineteenth century onwards they moved from a central position within the town to its

outskirts, for contamination and sickness were drawn from their proximity (op. cit.). One

other classification, which may be useful to our understanding of the foyers, is Foucault‟s

fifth example of heterotopias: the close and isolated space that one cannot penetrate unless

he is forced to (i.e. a prison) or a rite of purification is implied (the Muslim hammam; we

could add the mosque and so on). Brothels and colonies, hospitals and so forth are also

heterotopias, spaces regulated by meaning, such as the perfect Jesuit settlements in South

America, whose spatial organization had marked “the geography of the American world”

with Christianity (ibid). In my view, the foyers may be another type of Foucauldian

heterotopias, at times incorporating the main examples together. They are both closed

spaces where the migrant is forced to remain in Paris, but they are also a place of time

crisis for those who inhabit it and for the wider community, which keeps them at bay.

Their proximity and visibility is dangerous, they are a reminder of another heterotopia: the

colony, which should be far away elsewhere. Migration has subverted the logic of distance,

even beyond globalization, which has granted worldwide networking and free movement

of things, but not that of people. It has brought a piece of colonial memory before

Republican eyes. The impossibility of defining these spaces with the mark of the Republic

generates disapproval, rejection, denial and disgust. Even at the heart of Paris, the foyers

9http://www.jstor.org/pss/464648. „Heterotopias‟ was the basis of a lecture given by Foucault in 1967, later published by the French journal Architecture /Mouvement/ Continuité in 1984 with the title „Des Espaces Autres‟.

65 remain invisible entities, cast out of the main social body, this way gaining back the distance they are expected to keep as absolute others. Not only an aesthetics of conformity is under way (about what can be seen and what can become tangible), but also a moral one, after which recognising the foyers would equate to becoming conscious that a negotiation is due, that probably “these others” within the Republic demonstrate that the universal principle of unity is at issue and needs revising. At present however, the foyers are merely heterotopias of unwanted migration.

Chapter 2

Methodology: a fieldwork outcome.

I. The field.

When I arrived in Paris, I was unaware of the existence of male-only housing centres hostels accommodating migrants. My country of origin, Italy, has something similar in

Brescia, where one housing centre accommodates a concentration of only Senegalese families. Yet the uniqueness of Foyer 93 is the complete absence of women and children, something which is revealing of the French way of integrating migrants. The riots in the banlieues (Oct-Nov 2005) have generated a debate on the type of migration/migrants

France is able to integrate, or rather, willing to accept. Sarkozy, then still Minister of the

Interior, suggested the idea of immigration choisì, that is, “selected migration”. At present, this is synonymous with the recruitment of specialized workers in the tertiary sector, business, engineering, scientific research, academia and so on, that is, of highly qualified professionals. Nevertheless, migration has always been “selected”, in that, since the 1930s, recruiting migrants for mercantile labour (the navetans), especially the Soninkés (as seen above), and for industry was a priority for France. The foyers in Paris and in the whole Île- de-France region are marked by such choice, so much so that they are still ethnically organised according to the historical migratory waves that preceded them.

The focus of my initial doctoral fieldwork was not on the foyers. In fact, it aimed at looking at the healing practices among the Senegalese community in Paris. To achieve that, a pilot fieldwork in Paris of a few months had paved the way to obtaining the cooperation of those responsible and of a few members at the Mouride mosque in the Île-de-France region. The sacred town of the Mourides, also the site of both CAB‟s tomb and the great

Mouride mosque, is Touba. My interest was premised on the idea of showing how Mouride health-seeking behaviour and Mouride understanding of affliction, was either in opposition or in dialogue with the western (French) ones. Actors and services would discuss their medical behaviour, in which their negotiation of traditional values and practices would have shown the gradient of the Mouride community in adapting to the French system or else, their novel and alternative strategies.

Throughout the first months of my fieldwork in Paris, therefore, I based my investigation at the Mouride cult centre. I thought that it would guarantee my entry into the Mouride community, attending the cult place for prayer and religious events such as the mouloud – celebration of Mohammed‟s birthday, the Magal – commemoration of CAB‟s exile to

Gabon, cultural events and so forth. The Mouride cult centre is placed at the outskirts of

Paris, in the Île-de-France region. The faithful call it Maison/Kerr Serin Touba, which can be seen to be a mixture of French (maison=house) and Wolof (Kerr=house; serin= master), literally: the house of the master of Touba, that is, CAB‟s cult place. I will simply address it as the Mouride centre.

At the Mouride centre, I normally met the president and his assistant in the library, a place under development that was supposed to host an ever-increasing number of materials on

Islam, the history of the Mouridyya and CAB, together with current works and the proceedings of seminars on this subject. A project has been put in place to obtain funds, so that the centre is now networking with a series of bookshops interested in selling books to them. Some of these are located nearby the Great Mosque of Paris. The meetings consisted in very long sessions, during which the three of us discussed Islam and the meaning of

Sufism as it is understood by the Mouride order. Even though I could refocus and better grasp the theodicy of this branch, I realised that I would not be able to get any access to the

Mouride community and their homes. Nevertheless, this approach guaranteed a few contacts beyond the centre: among these was the very useful one of a Mouride diviner living in Barbès (see chapter six) and the possibility of attending Mouride cultural events and ritual celebrations (chapter five).

At this point, I underwent somewhat of a crisis, realising that by being both Catholic and a woman in this environment, I would not be allowed to pursue my research further. I realised that the obstacle was impossible to overcome, unless I repositioned my research and myself differently. I returned to London for a few days, in order to work things out through the comforting reassurance of a familiar environment. I met my supervisor, colleagues and friends, and discussed my difficulties with them while trying to understand how to move on. I then went back to Paris having in mind to turn my initial efforts on their head. Yet, how would I make contacts with a community scattered across Paris and the whole Île-de-France region, without any leads I had in fact resorted to the Mouride mosque thinking, probably naively, that such a gathering point would have granted me the chance to meet people, get to know them and eventually be given the opportunity to share their lives for the time my research implied.

As my respondents have reminded me later, France is not Senegal or Mali, where probably getting access to the homes is relatively easier, because the people are in their own country and therefore researchers are hosted more favourably than in France, where the relationship is reversed. West African communities feel discriminated against, that they are at the

69 margins and not considered part of France even when their children are born there. The first generation of Soninké migrants to Paris now has grandchildren, this entailing three generations of migrant descent! The fact that even the passing of such a long period of time has not yet facilitated the integration of the (West) African communities in France reflects on their privacy and suspicion of the (white) French wider community. Researchers are regarded broadly as journalists of a kind, spying into their lives only to depict them negatively, summarily or wrongly. Episodes of previous research carried out in the foyers, for example, had led to police raids and awakened a sensationalist interest in West African communities from the media, which of course the communities concerned did not appreciate. In sum, my idea of getting to the Mouride community by simply accessing their cult centre revealed itself to be a dream.

Urban anthropology does not correspond to the romantic ideal of the Malinowskian researcher who is flung off to far distant countries and soon incorporated into the life of the community under study. The “cargo cult” is pre-history in anthropology as is the idea it conveys of primordial encounters of peoples inhabiting completely separate worlds (Gupta and Ferguson, 1997). Senegal and Mali have been subject to French colonial power since the time of the AOF (Afrique Occidentale Française), the federation of West African States with Bamako as its capital. During this time, Sufi West African leaders, the marabouts, have been subjugated, deported to France or have cooperated with the French administration. Senegalese and Malian minority groups in France resent the part the French have played in the making of their history. The riots, which spread in the suburbs (Oct-Nov

2005) of France after the death of two young boys chased by the police, have become

70 paradigmatic of their oppression by and exclusion from the rights held by other French citizens.

It became clear that to carry out fieldwork I had to be part of a social network which included both French and West African migrants; a middle ground which enabled both groups of interlocutors to come together, as interested parties, even if they were not on equal basis. That way, I would gain a form of recognition and status within the community and this would constitute my way in. I therefore resorted to grass-root associations working on migration and health, which remained my research focus. I gathered information on the main organisations working with migrants in this field and on those run by migrants themselves. This implied internet searches, phone calls and visits to the most diverse associations (pursuing cultural, medical and entertainment aims). I eventually chose five among these, which not only made my research in Paris possible, but also gave it another direction. These were: Migrations & Santé, Afrique Parternaire Service, the GRDR, the

AFAF and the Minkowska Centre (this will be the subject of chapter seven), whose activities and aims are described below. These five associations have been fundamental at different stages of fieldwork in Paris and for different reasons. I will describe now their activity and the insight they provided to my research on the ground.

II. Migrations et Santé.

One of the principal associations working on migrants‟ health (prevention, assistance, follow-ups and so on) is Migrations & Santé (henceforth M&S). I got in contact with this association through a French colleague of mine at the Sorbonne University, to which I was affiliated throughout the first six months of my fieldwork in Paris, thanks to a scholarship I

71 obtained at UCL. M&S was created in 1974 in order to document and collect all the material on the migrants‟ health in Paris. To this effect, it created the Centre de

Documentation (information centre), where ideas, debates and documents collected on the ground by associations, social workers and medical staff has eventually given birth to the journal Migrations Santé.

M&S takes into account the cultural aspects of migrants‟ health and the aetiology of their illnesses, understanding the socio-cultural elements that might influence both the formation and resolution of such illnesses. Its action is focused towards, amongst others, the people living in the foyers, the travailleurs migrants – migrant workers. According to its manifesto, M&S aims at “grasping the anthropological features of migrant illness”. This way, M&S holds meeting with the patients and their families – if they so wish – and avails itself of interpreters when required. Predominantly, M&S works for people of North and

West African origin; therefore, the language in use by these patients may be Arabic and/or

Bambara (the vernacular language among most of the West African Mande ethnic groups).

M&S also helps the patients by referring them to social services and hospitals and by providing information to assist in, or actually carrying out, their administrative paperwork.

According to the 2009 bulletin, M&S has taken action in fourteen hospitals in the Î region.

M&S delivers its services in the foyers in the region, both in the so-called Algerian and

Malian foyers, addressing situations of discomfort and mental illness. Loneliness and depression are reported as the most common pathologies suffered by the residents, yet more serious episodes of mental illness have also occurred. For this reason, over the last few years, M&S has carried out counselling sessions in the foyers. M&S‟s interventions in

72 the foyers may be carried out either by experts or by a social worker, whose purpose is to gather the general information on the residents‟ health and to listen attentively to the individual‟s needs.

M&S grass-root action in the foyers is about HIV, cancer, lung disease and the prevention of infectious diseases. Thus, professionals offer information as well as vaccinations

(against diphtherias, tetanus, polio, hepatitis B and seasonal „flu), pulmonary and general check-ups. Recent arrivals are directed to the Centre Bilan (Centre of General Health), as required on the basis of their check-up results. Another important activity M&S carries out in the foyers is their service to the old residents: their health and expectations for their future in France or else in the home country are respectively listened to and looked after;

M&S also helps them in the administrative procedures leading to their obtaining pension benefits.

M&S induction, as it were, in the world of the foyers has been fundamental to my gaining access to them and then later in my choice of field site. Firstly, I got in contact with Mme

Bitatsi Trachet, a French lady in charge of the grass-root initiatives in the foyers. We had a meeting at the MS centre, in Paris, so that she could assess the nature of my interest in the association. She suggested I started out by visiting a few foyers, getting an idea of what they were like, testing my own reaction to them, to then decide if they could eventually provide the venue for my future fieldwork. She firmly believed that studying migrants in

Paris on the subject of illness and/or wellbeing should at least start from there.

I therefore took part in several visits to the foyers during the so-called permanences, that is,

M&S‟s visits to the foyers for medical check-ups and illness prevention programmes. The foyers, as I will explain later (see chapter four), are run by associations depending on State funding. The principal ones are the Sonacotra (funded by the Ministry of the Interior), the

AFTAM (Association pour la formation technique de base des Africaines et Malgaches, founded in 1962) and SOUNDIATA (Soutien Union Dignité Accueil du Travailleur

Africaine, founded in 1963). The last two envisage a different type of management, more independent from State decisions and control, and promoting migrants‟ participation in the running of their living space.

This meeting opened up a new direction for my fieldwork. I had not planned to be working in the foyers, nor did I know of their existence. I became more interested in them, in the work and organization of M&S, whose team is made up of the director (of Algerian origin), the people in charge of grass-root programmes and the volunteers. I was allowed to visit their documentation centre, accurately stacked and well furnished. I found most of the anthropological literature on migration and health, together with files and papers on migratory laws.

Over a period of several weeks, I visited a series of foyers, both in Paris and in the near banlieues, in order to decide which one would become my field site. I would carry out my collection of data in a chosen foyer and, this way, build up my knowledge of the community living there. My decision was at that point already made: the foyer in question would have shown the immediate strategies for the insertion and settling down of West

African communities in Paris. Through one of the AFTAM militants, I started taking part in residents‟ meetings in one of the foyers in Paris, where everyday management concerns

74 were discussed. The residents, the AFTAM representatives and a lawyer, advising the committee on legal matters, were normally present. After a few meetings the AFTAM representative, a lady in her fifties, invited me to take part in an event, celebrating the opening of a new foyer. The lady explained to me that the size of this new one was much smaller than that of older ones. The foyers are now at the centre of political controversies as to whether they should be demolished and the people re-housed in smaller units, so as to get rid of the oldest and most antiquated ones and so as to have better control over the residents (migrants) living there.

At the opening, a meal was served in the canteen of the foyer. The residents and other social workers operating in other foyers of the region took part. Some French local people also showed up and took part in the celebration. This was a rare event, since the French rarely visit the foyers, unless they are social workers or other professionals (see chapter four). While consuming the excellent food and enjoying the play improvised for the children by one of the residents– theirs and those of the neighbourhood, I met one of the volunteers working at Foyer 93, who shared jokily her vision of the foyers with the others present at the canteen. This volunteer affirmed that a good sense of survival skills is necessary to work there. She described the discomforts of teaching French at Foyer 93.

Apart from the presence of cockroaches in the small room provided for teaching, she lamented the residents‟ scarce attendance at her lessons. Her words sparked laughter and amusement, yet her dark humour disturbed me. On our way to central Paris, I asked the

AFTAM activist if she could kindly show me Foyer 93. We had to make a detour to see it, since it is clustered in a small side street. Nevertheless, it is a huge and tall building, overlooking the smaller ones around it. I understood then why that volunteer had such an

75 ironic attitude: she was not probably exaggerating or making fun of the people living there.

The place was gritty and sombre, sticking out gloomily and grotesquely from the surrounding environment. Certainly though, Foyer 93 would not be the place where one would feel comfortable immediately. This feeling alone sufficed to deepen the conviction that working in such an environment required, as the volunteer had stated earlier that afternoon, strong commitment, dedication and strong empathy for the people who face that reality on a daily basis.

I replied to Mme Trichet, giving an account of the panoramic understanding of the foyers which I had developed in those weeks, and asking permission to attend Foyer 93 as one of

M&S‟s members. This would have given me status vis-à-vis the person responsible for the residents at Foyer 93, the délégué, the one who, in turn, should allow me access to the foyer. She agreed and offered her and M&S‟s full and ongoing support. After a few months of my initial fieldwork, I attended Foyer 93 with M&S‟s endorsement, alone.

My first visit at Foyer 93 was shocking in many respects, but this only reinforced my intention to carry out my fieldwork there. Firstly, the physical space (see following chapter) looked like a representation of a Malian household, which happened to have been flung from Kayes into France! The court in the middle of the surrounding living area - going up three stories from two dislocated entrances, one near the prayer room, the other next to the canteen, made me feel as if I was entering not just a huge building accommodating different individuals, but rather the housing of quite large a family, huddling all of its members together. My impression was later confirmed by my respondents in Foyer 93, who in turn lamented the lack of privacy but also praised the

76 sense of belonging and cohesion such an environment provided. The market stands around the perimeter of the court sell all sort of religious and lay paraphernalia, the forge produces jewellery, the tailor workshop, the bar and so on depicted at a glance the life the residents led in Paris. Their activities, material culture and interests were already in front of my eyes.

I later found out that Foyer 93 has continuously attracted the attention of filmmakers and journalists, attempting to sketch this fringe of the migrant population in such a picturesque habitat. The scant information the two journalists had previously managed to obtain encouraged me to pursue my research further, thinking that my approach would gain the confidence of the residents. I did eventually, but it has been a long journey of testing – on their behalf, and of scrutiny, on mine. In sum, this is implied by anthropological participant observation: the understanding of the community as to its social functioning and apparent structure (an etic approach), but also its conflict resolution, unsaid problems, discomforts, coping strategies of survival in illegality and illness, when these occurred (an emic approach).

The cosmopolitan role of the anthropologist, making “small-scale worlds” universal, furthering the knowledge of “part societies and cultures”,always relies on the generosity of his/her respondents (Werbner, 2008, p. 54; p. 63). The invasive nature of the media does not take into account such generosity, nor the self-scrutiny implied by qualitative analysis.

Only such a process is able to render human experiences and meaning-making intelligible.

According to Kant, the faculty of judgement is that which enables the bringing of the particular to the universal, the detail to its category. It is this faculty that the anthropologist is asked to activate, in order to draw on the particulars “located in social fields” (ibid, p.

54) and transform experiences into case studies. For instance, I understood that my job was

77 to overcome my own barriers. I was the only woman to have carried out fieldwork in this male environment, something that was unheard of or at least quite rare. The observer/observed schema was not even an option, boundaries were already blurred: the residents had to trust me and to know better about my intended research, before they gave their consent to my fieldwork.

Hence, I asked the people in the court if I could meet the representative of the residents, the délégué. Normally the délégué is quite busy, since he responds to all the matters concerning the management of the foyer. I waited a while until he came. I explained to him that I was a researcher, a member of M&S, and that I was interested in carrying out fieldwork at Foyer 93. Somebody next to us listened to the conversation and burst out his disapproval. Was I another person spying into the foyer, or reporting confidential material either to the police or to the press, which would have amounted to the same anyway? The délégué intervened, raising his voice against the guy, encouraging him to behave and to leave me alone. After that occasion, I never came up against such hostility again. Over time, on the contrary, the residents became interested in my research, some merely accepting me, others welcoming me.

However, the difficulty of being a researcher in an environment then only attended by professionals is exemplified by the reaction of aversion towards me: the residents did not see any interest in having me there, since I was not carrying out any practical work for them. They accused me of simply pursuing my own career, whose aim was not even clear to them or that, even worse, could have potentially harmed them, as other interventions in the foyer (without social or medical pursuits) had demonstrated. I therefore had to devise a

78 strategy to make myself and my research be seen to be useful to them. I described my research as providing a way of sensitizing the public on how West African migrants live in

France, in order to show another face of Islam, contrary to that portrayed after the Al-

Qaida attacks or during the days of the 2005 riots in France, that is, uniquely as a threat to the public order. Perhaps Islam could now be seen also as a medium through which

Muslims act out their lives, as their way of relating to the spiritual realm. I explained that my interest was purely a sociological one, since I was not affiliated to any media or political party, and that my research was based in the UK. Thanks to my membership of

M&S, the residents started having a clearer idea of the reason for my presence there, which in their eyes was anyway limited to the time of my research in Paris, before I went back to the UK. In the end, they started appreciating my focus on Islam and wellbeing, something that nobody had attempted before. Previous work in the foyers had, in fact, probably following the Durkheimian school, addressed their social organization, migratory trends and informal economy, with little consideration for their practice of Islam and their wellbeing, which they felt was at the heart of their life as Muslims and human beings.

The turning point happened after several weeks of my attendance at Foyer 93. I still I had to obtain formal recognition from the imam of Foyer 93, since M&S and the délégué had only facilitated my entrance into Foyer 93, but not opened the way to the residents‟ trust in me. After a series of very frustrating denials and missed appointments, I eventually wrote a letter (in French) to the imam, which was brought to him by Marabata, a man in his forties from Kayes. As other respondents told me, Marabata is of slave descent (see chapter 4). He is expected to carry out what is needed, from menial jobs to delivering information to the residents in their rooms, for example. I had to chase Marabata on many occasions, before

79 he agreed to give my letter to the imam. After another time lapse, the imam eventually let

Marabata know that he was ready to receive me. The news run quickly through Foyer 93.

From then onwards, people knew me as the one studying Islam in the foyer, one who was

“protected” by the imam himself. I had bypassed the problem of being a woman, and a

Catholic one, in this male and Muslim dominated environment. A veil of sorts obscured my otherwise dangerous youth and (white) single status.

At Foyer 93, the dominant ethnic group is Soninké. The residents come from the region of

Kayes, Western Mali. This ethnic group may be found between the Senegal River valley, in Senegal, and Western Mali. Notwithstanding that the Senegalese Wolof ethnic group is the major provider of talibés (faithful) to the Sufi branch of the Mouryydia, it goes without saying that Soninkés can also be Mourides. Was this the case at Foyer 93? What was their

Muslim affiliation? How was Islam embedded into their lives? My focus had turned towards the Soninké community at Foyer 93, so that the Mourides of the Île-de-France region would provide the comparative element to this study.

III. Afrique Parternaire Service.

I also worked with Afrique Parternaire Service (from now on APS) while I was in Paris. I came to know of its existence through my own search into the associations working with migrants and in migrant health. APS is one of the best known on the ground, so much so that at public meetings on this subject it is generally either invited to convene or one of the organisers. APS aims at supporting migrants with social concerns as a consequence of their having a medical condition. Residency rights for medical reasons (when not treatable in the home country) and work-related illnesses – accidents, unhealthy environments and so

80 forth, are the most common issues they deal with. APS is run by a Malian woman in her fifties. Her name is Bintou. As I discovered later, all of the migrants who resort to her, not only respect her for the services she delivers through the association, but also for her age, which makes any young client of the association relate to her as if she were their mother, as one respondent told me. Bintou works together with a French woman, who helps her with the administrative paperwork. Bintou is said to speak all the languages of Africa. This is because she speaks Bambara, the currency language spoken throughout West Africa, and other languages such as Wolof and Soninké, as well as French. Bintou used to volunteer to do translations in the Bichat hospital, in the South of Paris, for West African patients who could not speak French. The hospital has now endorsed her services, calling upon the association to help in such cases.

The efforts of APS are also focused on the social integration of migrants‟ families, mediating on their behalf with employers, schools and health institutions. In this respect,

APS also offers an attentive listening service for migrants‟ needs and difficulties in settling down in Paris and adapting to its “rules”. For example, APS has put in place a programme, to help Muslim families “get out of polygamy”, a quite controversial issue in France, as much as a very popular one amongst the anti-migration lobby, amongst whom is President

Nicolas Sarkozy. For the latter, Muslim migrants are pasassimilable (impossible to integrate) into the French social fabric, because of the customs Islam entails. APS organises HIV prevention sessions (in French, Soninké and Bambara) at the centre and in the foyers; it facilitates the access to treatment for undocumented migrants, the sans- papiers, and it mediates between them and the medical staff. APS also provides counselling for African patients, carries out networking with other associations in the

81 territory during public forums, and convenes health professionals, social workers, academics and so forth. APS, in fact, also develops the intellectual strength of the association, by periodically organising or attending public debates regarding migrants‟ social wellbeing (housing conditions, cultural barriers and so on).

APS is active in the media so as to sensitize the public to the theme of integration, addressing both the migrant community and the French one, since their encounter is conceived to be the premise for a peaceful and constructive relationship. APS airs a programme on Radio Libertaire on this theme. Likewise, APS is the curator of a website, where a review of the main African headlines and newspapers is presented, in order to provide information, seemingly divergent from official French coverage of the life of

Africans in both France and Africa. A space is also dedicated to the discussion on cultural themes and the literary production by African intellectuals.

I took part in several meetings at APS, which operates as a drop-in centre. People attend to discuss their legal-medical situation, often after very long waits, since many may turn up on the same day. The centre is open in the afternoons, three times a week, and, even if time runs out quickly, everyone is listened to. Alternatively, Bintou organises her agenda in order to answer all the queries, even outside her working hours. I did contact her on many occasions in the evenings, when I was myself back from Foyer 93 and freer to talk.

However, I did not seem to be an exceptional case, thus showing not only how she is dedicated, but also how great is the demand for her time.

Thanks to APS, I had the chance to attend seminars and forums, gathering key representatives of the associated world in Paris to debate on the issues of migration and health. On one of these occasions a healer attended, who used traditional medicine to treat his patients. The community deemed him competent in his work and he was in Paris for just a brief visit. Marabouts and healers, who are considered to be valuable by their community, do not normally live in Europe. In fact, they only visit their followers/clients abroad to benefit them with their baraka, the divine gift, which marabouts are thought to possess through their proximity to God; healers‟ baraka is equally conceived as a gift, which, though disembodied from formal Islam, serves to link the human to the metaphysical world.

Bintou provided other useful insights to my research. She put me in contact with a Malian marabout, to whom she also resorted to “solve” her problems. The marabout in question was very popular, judging by the long queue of people awaiting their turn to see him. He was believed to have the ability to see the jinn and divine the future for people (see chapter

6). In addition, Bintou took me on a few occasions to the foyer where her husband lives. I found out later in my fieldwork that this was not common: for the first generation migrants, the head of the family may reside in the foyers only if he is single or his spouse is in the home country. In Mali, as my respondents at Foyer 93 explained, gender roles are very strict and determine different codes of behaviour for men and women. They attend to very separate tasks and spaces. Men gather with their counterparts to pray, work and to spend their leisure time. Women spend much more time in the house than men, or else spend time attending the market and carrying out minor jobs in the fields. This is true for the migrants coming from rural areas, such as the region of Kayes. Living in separate households is not

83 uncommon in the home country, yet a similar pattern is not replicated in Paris. The man is supposed to visit the family in the country of origin, when his legal status or financial situation does not prevent him from doing so. Moreover, they nurture the myth of return by amassing material wealth to enhance their reputation as heads of the family. Often this translates into their invisibility in France: the real life is in Mali and their stay in France is nothing but temporary. They work hard to achieve financial viability, which will also allow them to go back home, once they have overcome their illegal status.

My relationship with Bintou continued throughout my stay in Paris. I often asked advice about aspects of my research regarding the Malian community broadly and her experience in Paris. Through APS, I could assess the success and networking potential of the associations working to benefit the migrant population in Paris. APS has been central in demonstrating migrants‟ needs in terms of health- seeking behaviour and legal demands, which indeed often go together. The universality accorded to the right to receive medical care can be a means by which illegal migrants claim residency permits, that is, by claiming treatment which they can only access in France (because their home countries cannot provide it). The drop-in sessions at APS are also used to scrutinize whether migrants‟ demands corresponded to true medical needs or else if they were simply cover-ups to obtain documents.

The activities run by APS are plural and diversified. Bintou herself carries out (cultural) translations for West African patients at the Bichat hospital, in the South West of Paris.

She started out helping at the hospital on her own initiative, stimulated by the people in the community (Malian and Senegalese) who knew her linguistic skills and asked her to

84 mediate with the medical staff. Now her role there is endorsed. Interestingly, it appears that the role of cultural mediator developed almost naturally, at a community level, thanks to people like Bintou, who took the initiative to bridge the gap between the community and the medical institutions. The overriding feeling among the clients of APS, predominantly

West African migrants, is that intermediaries and initiatives that are born out of the community itself are more trustworthy. They think that either belonging to the community or having a history of migration can be grounds for grappling with the number of difficulties migrants face in France in relation to their health-seeking behaviour and the bureaucratic processes involved. More generally, the cultural misunderstandings or barriers that West African patients encounter in French medical institutions (and not only there), must have been addressed by social workers like Bintou, who perhaps share a similar background, have a migratory history and now work for French institutions. Sargent (2006) focuses on the reproductive strategies of Muslim Malian women in Paris to reflect on the negotiation of identities these women undergo while they “pursue individual and family goals” (op. cit, p. 45). They motivate their choices through an Islamic idiom, by following their husband‟s authority or their own individual choice. However, these women‟s strategies also reveal the constraints that migration policies, the welfare and the health care systems impose on them. According to Sargent‟s study, even though contraception is a gendered issue with family and religious elements, the French medical system is interested in limiting the phenomenon of repeated pregnancies, which, though certainly dangerous for these mothers, is also impinging on the cost of the French welfare system. This can be seen in the information about contraception provided by French midwives in post-natal wards, with the emphasis put on the benefits of contraception and on women‟s‟ rights. Thus

Malian women are always given prescriptions for contraceptive pills. Cultural mediators,

85 who should be ready “on call”, are often not present and their absence often excused by the fact that Malian women speak French anyway (it is often not the case) (Sargent et al.,

2009a). Infertility, the author adds, could hardly be grounds for asylum-seeking (according to a Malian staff member of a legal aid association), since the French system would not

“subsidize treatment to enhance the fertility of an African” (Sargent, 2006, p. 47).

IV. The association GRDR.

The GRDR (Groupe de Recherches et de Réalisations pour le Développement Rural) is an association working for migrants on the ground, notably, within the scope of their health programme, aiming at reducing the social discrimination of the people living in the foyers.

It primarily helps them solve legal and bureaucratic issues. This is regarded as the first step towards their integration, since many of them struggle to relate to French institutions and offices. GRDR is a stone‟s throw from Foyer 93 and it also runs its activities at Foyer 93, amongst other foyers. Hence, it was not difficult for me to become aware of its existence and to get in contact with it.

GRDR organises prevention and orientation programmes on health issues in the foyers and assesses migrants‟ social conditions, such as: integration/exclusion, legality/illegality, access to health and so forth. It joins with social workers to try to understand people‟s needs and, eventually, to fulfil them. It appears that health education is one of its most important activities, since the people involved do not seek medical help until their problems become serious. The same association has a twinning project with the region of

Kayes which coordinates grass roots with hospital support and it is building small health centres in Senegal. In Paris, the GRDR has set-up a drop-in centre in the area of Seine-

Saint-Denis. It operates in various foyers to address the plurality of the migrant community and its needs in relation to health issues.

This association demonstrates how, even though the foyers are divided by ethnic origin so that one finds foyers occupied by Malian, Senegalese or Mauritanian people only, the divide in terms of health-seeking behaviour is not marked. People of West African origin seek similar help and have similar strategies and aims: migrants resort to medical treatment at a critical stage and for supposed bodily aetiologies, and to traditional/herbal treatments when conventional medicine has proved insufficient/inadequate. The GRDR has observed the process of inclusion of the traditional practices into the mainstream of the official medicine, particularly common in Senegal, a trend in which a few people (from the milieu of the associations) try to encourage traditional/herbal treatments as being complementary to western medicine in France. To my knowledge though, this process is only being debated and suggested as a future possibility by associations of this kind. So far, nothing has really been put in place. APS, as I mentioned above, occasionally invites the healer

(recognised for his skills by the Malian community) to intervene at public venues on the themes of health and healing. The co-operation of traditional and official medicine is still at an early stage. The Dakar Fann hospital in Senegal, where community-based therapy and transcultural psychiatry merge, based on the innovations brought by the French psychiatrist

Collomb, is still only a rare example. Moreover, the idea that migrants in France might receive (psychiatric) therapy tailored for them is undergoing strong criticism and resistance, so that it is very possible that this will never be pursued (see chapter 6).

The principle driving the work of GRDR is that of understanding and ameliorating the social condition of the people in the foyers as part of their activities directed towards promoting their health and wellbeing. Their hypothesis is in accordance with the idea that the creation of a good social and living environment is the basis for the wellbeing of the people who inhabit it. In this sense, a discourse on the health of a community crosses into the political discourse of social wellbeing, in which a wider landscape of concrete environments, situations and experiences impinge on the life of individuals in Europe, together with but also beyond their cultural backgrounds. Thus, a discourse of political and social responsibilities is highlighted.

The over-crowding of the foyers seems to override any other problem, which in fact emerge as a consequence of this, such as the deplorable state of hygiene. Noise pollution causes sleeping pattern disorders and there is a high risk of contagion from infective diseases; the incidence of tuberculosis, respiratory problems and dermatitis are all common, due to the close contact between the residents in the rooms and communal areas.

Illegal migrants have no other choice than to live in the foyers, where their relatives may have found them a place. The situation, which should be temporary, is prolonged instead for years, weakening the morale of the residents and degrading the environment further.

Nevertheless, the migrants‟ first concern is to have the minimum requirements necessary, that is, housing and a job. Health only becomes an issue during crises, when illness limits their ability to work and to live normally.

People think they have no right to worry about their health, since their objective is always to work for their families. Their mind and body are secondary; their concept of good health

88 means simply eating good food and sleeping well. Migrants do not often avail themselves of health or social benefits insurances, towards which they should contribute monthly. One of these is the mutuelle, a health insurance, which refunds the whole cost of the therapy.

The mutuelle is paid as a standing order out of the worker‟s salary. Illegal migrants cannot resort to this and working migrants generally do not find it cost effective. Those who do not work or are retired do not have a mutuelle (although in the case of the retired, their pension scheme covers part of their health insurance), while illegal migrants cannot profit from social benefits. Undocumented migrants can avail themselves of the Aide Medical

État (State Medical Help) though, but it is very difficult to obtain. The AME conditions of suitability are very strict (e.g. declaration of address and employment, which most of the time illegal migrants cannot provide), and require a lot of paperwork that people are reluctant to carry out. GRDR concludes that preventive measures are almost entirely absent among their migrant sample in the foyers, since the migrants either ignore or are not able to access the institutional mechanisms and services in place.

The GRDR emphasizes another important point, dealing with the attitude of the people in their sample towards their own illnesses, which also matches my data. They resort to

French doctors only as a final recourse, and often distrust them and the therapy they suggest. Moreover, migrants in the foyers do not like discussing their health and they feel guilty when they fall ill. They might suffer from anxiety, but they would be unwilling to share their problem even with those sharing the same room. Their social vulnerability hinders their access to health and distances them even further from the public system – both institutional in general and health in particular. Some are afraid of risking being spotted by police surveillance while they are in the hospital or that the medical consultation

89 might be too expensive. Even those who are entitled to free check-ups do not often avail themselves of this, unless they are close to returning to their home country, when they are keen on making sure everything is in order and that all the required vaccines are completed. They also undergo these tests upon arrival from journeys in Africa, since tropical diseases (yellow fever, malaria and so on) are endemic both in Mali and in the basin of the Senegal River.

According to the GRDR‟s experience on the ground, people in the foyers do not resort to traditional healers in Paris; this finding only partially matches mine (see chapter seven).

Overall, the GRDR denies the contention that there might be specific “migrant pathologies”, other than in the sense that people from endemic areas are as prone to be carriers of infective diseases, as anyone else travelling through those countries. Moreover, in France there is no epidemiology based on ethnic groups (it is illegal). The only differentiation that can be made is that of whether people are of foreign origin or not. The only exception to this is in relation to the syndrome of HIV/AIDS, when the nationality of the patients is demanded. M. Alioune, my respondent at the GRDR, says:

“It‟s not because one is a migrant that one is more prone to illnesses, infective or otherwise. People of French nationality, living in precarious conditions of life, might be more vulnerable in respect of certain pathologies than other nationals, who are better off. If you see in the field how people live in the foyers, if you see their insalubrious dwelling places, you then realise how their vulnerability affects their life and health: mental and physical. We face social determinants, more than specific pathologies related to a specific group. The relationship migrant-health should be reframed into that of social environment. There aren‟t specific illnesses for particular groups. In France illnesses relate to patients as a whole, regardless of their nationality.”

At GRDR, I gathered useful insights to deepen my understanding of the activities carried out within the foyers by grass-roots associations to benefit the residents‟ wellbeing and stimulate development in their country of origin. Its overview of migrants‟ illness aetiology and understanding of illness as a result of social determinants, rather than being simple reductionism, clarified further my understanding of what generates or hinders residents‟ wellbeing. Good health certainly encompasses the functioning of bodily and mental faculties, but these are pitched against the wider social, political and environmental contexts, of any given historical moment in time. My ethnographic work and anthropological analysis had to shed light on the complexity of these overlapping layers and the way in which the residents may have control over their lives even in the face of squalid housing and marginalization.

It was only GRDR‟s confidence that there was a total absence of traditional healing in

Paris that left me unsatisfied. Even though the presence of marabouts and healers is a controversial issue (one that I will address later), traditional healing certainly is present in

Paris. Mental illness is conceived of as a spiritual illness, that is, either caused by supernatural entities or sent by God, thus it is a form of illness which can be construed and acted upon through traditional medicine, which implies “working with the spirits”.

More crucially, the GRDR put me in contact with the problems associations like GRDR face: the critical environments in which they have to operate, often with little funding to carry out their activities and with a low level of response from the migrants themselves.

Development projects outnumber health projects (both in France and in the home country) because the latter are more costly and difficult to implement, since they require expensive

91 equipment and more expert personnel. Moreover, development projects receive more funding and attention from the local municipality because they produce revenue. They are able to attract the interest of associations and of migrants, but also of NGOs, looking for intermediaries from relevant areas in developing countries with whom they can work. How the national budget is spent is revelatory of the French strategies towards migration. The focus on the development of the migrants‟ home countries rather than on projects promoting migrants‟ wellbeing in France demonstrates the overall will as being to stop migration to France. This is also in accordance with the European agenda aiming at “zero migration”.

V. The AFAF.

Associations created on the initiative of individuals, working on social/cultural programmes for migrants, are plentiful in Paris. They are often run by people of migrant descent or by migrants themselves. The boom of associations of this kind dates back to the

1983 law, which gave migrants the right to create them. Mostly located around the Seine- saint-Denis Oval, they frequently run language courses, set up work induction programmes

(i.e. accountancy, writing and so on), cultural events and social gatherings. The AFAF

(Association des Femmes Africaines et Françaises) is one of them. It intends to help women from West Africa through the difficult process of integration in France. I became interested in the work of the AFAF at a public forum, which gathered together different associations working for migrants. This was held to publicize and provide information for lay people about their activities, but was also designed to allow these associations to network among themselves. Mme Bintou, also present, introduced me to the president of

AFAF, to whom I explained the nature of my fieldwork in Paris. She invited me join the

92 language course that they provided to learn French and Arabic. I accepted and attended both the classes and the AFAF monthly meetings (Jan-April 2006).

The president of AFAF is a woman from Mali, while a middle-aged French woman manages the administrative paperwork. Illiterate Malian women who attended the classes made up the group of people participating in the initiatives of the AFAF. A native speaker from Tunisia taught French, the Arabic scriptures (the Qur‟an and laudatory prayers) and the reading of the scriptures, a skill that proved useful for me at Foyer 93, while I was reading the Suras with the imam. The course, as with many of AFAF‟s activities, was funded by the local municipality and by the participants‟ contributions and was held in a school to the south of Paris. The association also organised initiatives to establish moments of exchange with French local residents through recreational events. An example was the very successful atelier de cuisine, cooking workshop, hosted in a school, where anyone could take it in turns to cook and to teach the others her best recipe. A festive meal would then be shared between school staff and guests. The AFAF also provided free school support for children in the borough, whose school performance was poor.

These women, from Senegal and Mali and of varying ages, were all married with children, with the exception of a widow and a woman unable to conceive. The latter two attended the classes rarely until they stopped coming altogether. It appeared that they enjoyed the group‟s sympathy towards them, yet they suffered the stigmatization of their status.

Discussions about God and his power mixed with discussions about goods and the market, which the president at timed improvised, such as when she was able to bring some goods along: imitation jewellery, clothing material, aphrodisiac chewing gums and so on.

Alternatively, the distraction of children crying or children running around entertained this quite unique class. The teacher had insisted that all of us keep a notebook of all the new exercises and prayers from the Qur‟an that we had to learn by heart and then repeat in class. The lessons would normally pause for the middle morning break, during which the youngest of the women prepared tea with biscuits or yogurt cake. Towards the end of the course, it was my turn to provide the breakfast for all the others: I had become part of the group, its age hierarchy and roles. The youngest women were expected to prepare tea and do the washing up.

The most significant of the AFAF‟s meetings was held after the infamous fire at one of the migrants‟ buildings (summer 2005). The president talked to the members in French, until the emotional talk caused the medium to veer towards Bambara. A trembling and a deep sigh ran through the room: the death of a Senegalese woman and two of her young children had occurred in the fire (as somebody explained to me later). The president knew the husband of the deceased and had organised the meeting to mobilise the others to help him.

They decided to collect money for him and to provide clothes for the children who had survived (he had lost everything in the fire). These women also cooked in their spare time for those migrants and their families who were camping in the street waiting to obtain housing; they also brought toys for the children and other amenities. Among the homeless were also people who had been expelled from a few foyers without previous notice to leave, because they had been recently raided by the police.

As Quiminal et al. have argued (2002), women seem to be more versatile than men, possibly because they are more embedded in society through the parental care of their

94 children – the school, leisure centres, medical institutions and so forth become gathering points and sites of social interaction. Women experience a phenomenon of detachment from both village life and the oppressive authority of the elders and husbands. They gradually get into work and organising through female associations, which brings them more and more out of the house and into contact with other realities and possibilities. As

Whitol de Wenden has argued (1998), “many misperceptions persist concerning the nature of Muslim female migration” (op. cit., p. 134), as the contact with Western societies has

“affected the status and rights of women”. In fact, at Foyer 93 I heard repeatedly how men opposed bringing their women to France, since once there “they misbehave and become impolite”, meaning that they acquire independence and make their own decisions. Men come across as being more conservative (Quiminal et al., 2002) as they are oriented towards village initiatives or they gather at the mosque to pray. Nonetheless, young couples in France are limiting the size of their families, while young male migrants are also limiting themselves to one spouse, because it is argued that large families are unaffordable and very difficult to manage in France. Thus, the idea that Muslim families and women reproduce village socio-cultural models (polygyny and high fertility rates are among the most obvious) can be misplaced.

However, Whitol (1998, p. 141) criticizes the model, of orientalist and colonial tradition, according to which women represent the way forward and those with whom the Republic can best maintain dialogue, as opposed to and against their men, who are backward, obtuse and only concerned with tradition and/or religion. The author reminds us that religious fervour as an indicator of poor social integration – integration understood as secularism,

French proficiency, work and education, after Tribalat‟s definition (1995), can be

95 misleading. The Islamic observation of female Algerians and West Africans, who are fully integrated, is more private than that of men, yet it is as strong as that found among men (or stronger). This is not the case of Turkish women, who are socially withdrawn, less integrated and aiming to return to their home country. The status of women within the different migrant communities has become a parameter to judge “each nationality‟s degree of integration” in France (Whitol, op. cit., p.139).

The group of women I engaged with at AFAF showed an ongoing mobilization and support for the people in their own community who experienced crises, such as children whose performance at school was poor, homeless adult men (from the foyers, but not exclusively) who had lost everything and so on. These activities are not part of the manifesto of the AFAF and often such promptness to act was dictated by the otherwise almost complete lack of aid they would receive. On one hand, this is indicative of the social capital of these communities, helping them to stay cohesive and connected over time through solidarity chains and inter-personal aid. On the other hand, this phenomenon encourages community links and networks conducive to communitarian enclaves, which conversely, are not the result of choice, but rather are imposed on them by the absence of alternative French channels. The social needs of these minority groups is enormous, if we consider that the same members of the community have provided the first mobilization to support their community during the worst tragedies that occurred among them in Paris.

My conclusion is that the medical aid provided to minority groups - played out through institutional medical centres and associations – is valid, prompt and operational.

Nonetheless, the gap between providers and recipients is wide. I have outlined one possible

96 reason. The political will is to stress the validity of development projects in the migrants‟ countries, since they create revenues and justify the French presence in West Africa. As

Petiteville (1995) has argued, the French third worldism, viewing/using the migrants‟ associations as cultural mediators is “not without ambiguity” (p. 265). Medical programmes are expensive and entail the acceptance that migrants in France are no longer temporary economic agents (or as in the Senegalese tirailleurs context, asked to return home after they had fought for France) but people who are trying to settle in Paris. The fact that since the tightening of the migration laws, migration from the ex-colonies is stable, shows that migrants are part and parcel of the colonial legacy. Furthermore, they cannot return home because they are sans-papiers and because they have made a choice.

Notwithstanding the enormous difficulties Muslim men and women alike face in France, it appears that they are ready to embrace these difficulties, while they are gradually detaching themselves from their home countries and villages. This has intensified the formation of grass-root associations and inter-aid forms of solidarity, which are providing constant reference points for the community. In time of crisis, they are the first to mobilize. The life of these associations is often short-lived though, due to budgetary cuts and the political climate which disadvantages the accommodation of minority groups in France, especially when Muslim. During the language classes organised by the AFAF, for example, a controller showed up from time to time, to check that we were effectively learning French, as well as Arabic. Often, the class was more interested in Arabic, than in French, so that when the controller appeared, we all switched our discussion into French. The French logic of proximité and surveillance is at full regime in the most disparate circumstances involving minority groups and their activities.

Chapter 3

Foyer 93: the place, organization and the people.

I. TheContex

II. Figure 1

Migration has been a pivotal factor in the reconstruction of the French Republic, especially during the Wars of Algeria and Indochina, when many of the French working class were recruited into the army and a million Algerians returned home to fight for Algerian

Independence. The industrial demand for migrant labour peaked at this point. Up to that moment, migration could therefore be considered “natural” if not actually structural to the

French economy. It was officially processed through the ONI (Office National de l‟Immigration, which then became OMI, Office de Migrations Internationales) and migrants from North and West Africa were welcomed. It was not long before it all went sour: French public housing - HLM (Habitation à Loyer Modéré, lit. Cheap Rent Housing)

- could not match the exorbitant demands placed upon it, so most of the migrants and the

French working class turned to the cités, to unhealthy squats and to the foyers, to survive.

The first foyers were provided by the patronage of the industries as facilities for French internal migrants.The foyers called SONACOTRAL (Societé National de Construction pour les Travailleurs Algerians, 1955-1970) soon followed. In time, they become known as

“foyers SONACOTRA” (Societé National de Construction pour les Travailleurs), responding to the changed historical context (the foyers now include all workers, not just the Algerian ones). They were managed by the Ministry of the Interior mainly, which could this way supervise the Algerian migrants. These were the years of the Algerian War of

Independence, when the foyers resembled a military base more than they did public housing. Memory of this can be found in those foyers, which are still standing and have not yet been demolished: the rooms are built around a central space, meant to be occupied by a controller/guardian, who had to identify the residents. The directors of this type of foyers were generally ex-combatants, or had a military career and training. The SONACOTRA would later manage and sponsor the creation of new foyers out of old factories. The management of the associations AFTAM (Association pour la formation technique de base des Africains et Malgaches, founded in 1962) and SOUNDIATA (Soutien Union Dignité

Accueil du Travailleur Africain, founded in 1963) provided a different type of management. They fall under the Ministry of Cooperation and Education, while the

Administrative Council shares its functions with the representatives of the migrants‟ associations. Up to the present the direction of these foyers is generally run by migrants and in some ways their self-management is endorsed (Fievet, 1999).

The foyers appear to be much like an independent microcosm. They are spread out in the

whole Île-de-France region, and to a certain extent, they do not constitute a novelty in the

established social scenario. Nevertheless, they remain foreign to the reality of most of the

French, who are not directly involved with them (as shown in the methodological chapter).

Seine-Saint-Denis, located to the North East of Paris, is one of the smallest departments of

the Île-de-France region and one of the three most immediate banlieues10 of Paris. This

“department” is commonly referred to as the “neuf-trois”, the “nine/three”, according to its

postal code, which is 93. The departments of Seine-Saint-Denis, Haute de Seine and Val de

Marne make the Petit Couronne (small crown), that is, departments encircling the Parisian

district or Région Parisienne. According to the 1999 census, the Neuf-Trois concentrates

the highest number of migrants of the whole region (21.7% of which 17.3% from non-EU

countries)11 and has the highest mortality and unemployment numbers compared to the

national rates (respectively 5.7 per thousand and 13.5 %). The banlieue, which literally

means lieu bannis, banned place, is first of all a peripheral territory, where different socio-

economic realities co-exist. In fact, not all of the banlieues are necessarily poor areas. In

the department of Seine-Saint-Denis, for example, are also located two important economic

centres, the first one corresponding to the Roissy Airport and the second to the Plaine de

France, a lively and rich business zone.

Foyer 93 is one of the most populous and best known foyers of Montreuil and one of the

forty communes of the “93”. It is run and owned by AFTAM (Association pour la

Formation Technique de base des Africains et Malgaches). Associations like GRDR

10 In French, the word departement stands for the administrative division of a region. The banlieues stand generally for them. 11 These figures exclude those born in foreign countries with French citizenship at birth (Northwest African élite of the French colonies). See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seine-Saint-Denis. 100

(Group de Recherche pour le Développement Rural), mentioned above and the Copaf

(Collectif pour l‟avenir des foyers) mediate between the AFTAM and the residents. Foyer

93 was converted into a foyer from a piano factory some forty years ago and it is now popularly known as the “Bamako of Montreuil”. The majority of its male residents come from Mali, hence its symbolic nickname.

i. The residents of Foyer 93.

Foyer 93 should hold about one thousand and thirty-five beds, yet the delegate representing its members in the residents‟ committee (I will come to this later) estimates that there are around two thousand and two hundred and fifty residents. The reason for this is that those who have the right to a bed (the legal migrants) guarantee hospitality to their family members or fellow villagers in the foyer where they live. Many people coming from Mali can always count on their family links to find a place to sleep, especially if they are undocumented migrants. Therefore, there is a combination of both legal and illegal migrants at Foyer 93, the first group nurturing the second. Illegal migrants may over time acquire legal status and the formal right to a bed, so they will eventually help other family members in the same process of acquiring rights that they have gone through already. The solidarity chain functions in this capacity to ensure that the migratory cycle is always in operation. Solidarity is a value to the extent that the family/community can survive. People who may have lost family/community links or have come to France without any contacts encounter many difficulties of integration once they are in need, whether this need be financial, emotional, of housing, medical or all of these together. Salif for example, a man in his thirties, from Kayes, was found by M&S sleeping outside Foyer 93 on pieces of cardboard, in autumn 2006. Given the little relevance of legal status with respect to access

101 to a bed or even to enter Foyer 93, I wondered how this had occurred. The answer was that

Salif had no connections with any of the residents. He was not even allowed to sleep on the floor of the canteen or in the corridors, which were already crammed with people at night.

It was only through the intervention of M&S that Salif was eventually given a place on the ground floor, though he was still left alone and barely greeted by the other residents at the café bar or other communal areas. Such logic reinforces the concentration of people predominantly from the same areas, if not the same villages. Unsurprisingly therefore, the survey provided by M&S in 2006 on the nationalities present at Foyer 93 confirms this, as the following table shows:

Nationality Number of people

Malian 384

Mauritanian 11

French 8

Senegalese 3

Burkinabe 2

Central African 1

Ivorian 1

The region of Kayes includes in its territory seven administrative subdivisions (or cercles in French), which concentrically, from the Northern East cercle of Nioro, are: Yelimané,

Kayes (cercle), Bafoulabé, Kèniéba, Kita and Dièma. Each cercle bears the name of its main city. The principal cercles from which migrants at Foyer 93 originate are those of

Kayes and Yelimané. Each rural commune in these administrative subdivisions includes a

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number of smaller villages and towns, which I present in the following table according to

their representation at Foyer 93:

Cercle of Kayes

Kayes, Capital city of the cercle

Town and commune of Segalà

Town and commune of Kabaté

Town and commune Sadiolà

Cercle of Yelimané

Commune of Guidimé Town of Yelimané

Rural Commune of Villages:

Dafounou Gory Gory

Sambaga

Tambakara

Town and Commune of Town of Kersiniané

Konsiga

Urban commune of Toya Town of Yaguiné

According to the report of M&S, the age of the residents ranges from eighteen to over sixty- five, yet according to my data young boys do come to France before reaching adulthood. I have found that a series of denials are purported by the residents to protect themselves in the eyes of the French law concerning their legal status, religious practices, marriage relationships and so forth. At a very early stage of my fieldwork, it seemed that no one ever saw a marabout, that minors do not migrate, that their wives are all in the home country; that

103 the legal status of the residents is sorted out at some point as a matter of fact; that peace and harmony reigned at Foyer 93 and that Islam was the means by which this was achieved. To an extent, these vignettes concealed the nature of their most intimate problems in settling down in Paris.

Polygyny, illegal migration and Islam, especially during the time of the riots (autumn 2005), were advanced by the French intelligentsia as the reasons for explaining the failed integration of people like the residents of the foyers into the secular state of France.

Integration had become the fighting ground in which the different parties articulated respectively their motivation for refusing the Muslims‟ request to become legitimate citizens and the motivation for the latter to advance it, since they claimed to be good Muslims, working for the wealth of their families in Mali, whose legal status depended only on the

French political will to accept them. The universal message of Islam is for Muslims the means to counteract the secular and powerful universality of the French Republic, this way deepening the divide between French social understandings and their own. However, at

Foyer 93, the residents‟ concerns go well beyond that of being Muslims in France. As I was told by Jibril, a man from Gory in his fifties:

“What really bothers us is our illegal status; it‟s living in a place like this [Foyer 93],

always being short of money and not having a life!”

According to the figures provided by M&S, 59% of people come from the rural villages

mentioned above and 74% of these are between twenty-five and forty-five; 44% are

married as against the slightly greater 52.5 % who are single. Forty-nine per cent have

children: 96% of these children live in Mali. Thirty-nine per cent of the residents have no 104 family members in the foyer, against 56% who do. Those who are alone must have had an initial access to Foyer 93 through contacts (people from the same village may also facilitate their entry) or family members who may have left during the time of the survey carried out by M&S.

64% of the residents, because of their illegal status, do not go back to Mali, while 13% can do so only once in two years. Even those who have a job wait a long time to take a holiday, since when they return to Mali, they stay there for at least two months. Moreover, the cost of the flight and the financial expectations of the family, which weigh even more on the migrants when they go home, make the return even harder and thus more thought through.

The Muslim principle of sadaqa, donation, becomes an imperative for them, since their families believe and are made to believe that in Europe everyone is at ease, that money is available for all. Migrants are expected to bring presents and donate money to family and friends who come to visit them once they are there. They should pay for the cost of medications, family celebrations (births, funerals, weddings and so on), Muslim celebrations if these take place once they are there (aid-al-kabir, aid-al-fitr, Ramadan).

They should also take into account the fees for the marabout, whom they visit with their relatives. Furthermore, they have to contribute in some way to any local development, through the associations they may be part of, or by investing in family possessions (e.g. construction projects to build brick houses). The preparation of the journey home is in itself a family business and a sign of success.

80.3% of the residents have a good command of the French language, but only 55% can write it. The languages normally used for conversation are Bambara and Soninké, even for

105 those from Central Africa or Ivory Coast, due to previous contacts in Africa through internal migration. The scenario that opens up for the external researcher is one which suggests a very marginal fringe of the population, through their extremely ghettoised lifestyle, which takes place in crammed and claustrophobic rooms-dormitories, with little contact with the external world. Only 28% of the residents work officially, yet many more have interim jobs and/or do not have authorization to work. This will eventually become a problem during their retirement, when they risk being excluded from pension schemes, even when they have been working for twenty years or more in France.

II. Foyer 93 as a home.

Figure 2

What follows is a fairly “thick description” of the environment of the foyer, provided in order to provide a detailed representation of the physical space in which the residents live

106 and that they have made their own. I will describe its common areas and as well as the night space in the rooms.

The women who work at the canteen are often from Mali and in particular from the villages of origin of the residents themselves. They apply to the residents‟ committee, which recruits them on the basis of their skills and experience. This can be bolstered by previous experience developed in other foyers or in canteens in schools, cultural centres and so forth in Paris. It is also not unlikely that they would know residents at Foyer 93, who would facilitate the process. They work in shifts for periods of six months. Their wage is provided by the day‟s takings, after the money for the expenses to buy the food is deducted. They also pay a little fee to the savings of the foyer for the use of the facilities the canteen provides. The state of the canteen, as much of the rest of Foyer 93 is appalling.

Food lies everywhere, there are no refrigerators, so much so that as soon as one enters

Foyer 93 one can see, beyond the huge dump right in the middle of the court, sacks of potatoes and onions and carrots on the edges of the perimeter walls next to the canteen.

This would not be a problem in itself if food could be washed properly in the canteen, but instead there is just a little sink in the canteen and food is put in plastic or aluminium calabashes, which also are left lying about in the kitchen, where cockroaches and rats sneak in…

Foyer 93 is infested with rats; they have even eroded the wires and pipes of the canteen, so that illumination can be intermittent and the risk of gas spills is always present. This subject has also been brought to the attention of the consultation council (see below), with which I sat on many occasions, yet the solutions the AFTAM has suggested, in accordance

107 with Copaf, have not met with the resident‟s agreement. The former encourages changes to sanitize the canteen and bring it to the standard norm: they would buy fridges in which the food could be stored, renovate the whole place and demand that the cuisinières, the cooks, attend safety and hygiene training, while implementing standard procedures (the use of gloves, detergents, the cleansing of the working areas etc). The standardization of the social canteen (as it is called) would also grant the workers rights as employees in the canteen, with fixed wages and illness and accident cover.

The residents oppose the plan, not so much so as to protect some of the workers, who are illegal or in the process of gaining legal status, but because this might change considerably the dynamic within Foyer 93. A formal social canteen would bring third parties into the foyer and these would be interlocutors with whom the residents would have to deal and over whom they may feel they have no decisive power. The relationship of the residents with the AFTAM is one of opposition, since either they perceive it as hostile to their requests when they ask for improvements or because in their view the AFTAM only suggests rent increases and furthermore interferes with the way they organize the foyer.

Nonetheless, their relationship with the AFTAM is well established, dating back to the sixties, when it was founded. On the contrary, they do not know what to expect from other parties dealing with important matters such as their everyday life in the foyer. Moreover, such changes to the management of the canteen would imply a rise of the cost of each meal from the very basic €2/€3.50 to at least €4/5. On a daily basis, the price would of course have to be multiplied at least by two, considering the consumption of lunch and supper without breakfast (though some also have it at Foyer 93 before leaving for work). It is true that this would have an impact on their finances and it would cost them almost as much as

108 eating outside elsewhere else in Paris. In general, the residents who share the same room also share a middle or large size calabash in groups of two or three, which further reduces the price of the whole meal for everyone. The standardization of the canteen implies the elimination of such practices altogether, through the introduction of individual plates or the directive to consume food in the premises of the canteen. Until the Copaf with the residents had conducted a negotiation more suitable to their needs, the residents would have to use the canteen under conditions that they already rejected. In fact, the plan so far has been stopped and the residents have been asked to think over alternatives. The result being that the status quo is maintained, notwithstanding the ever-deteriorating status of Foyer 93.

The denial that the residents enact about their lifestyle is overt and can only make sense in the bigger picture within which they are placed. Once at Foyer 93, the residents have already endured the ordeal of the journey to Europe, the difficulties of gaining access to

Foyer 93 and of obtaining the right to a bed. They have established a routine with their fellow residents, they have become accustomed to the rhythm of the big city, to the gruelling working schedule when they have a job (generally menial work) or to the humiliating quest for temporary jobs, which is a constant feature throughout their life in

Paris. Some of them scrape a living with petty jobs and activities set up on their own initiative in other foyers around Paris or in the borough of Berbès, through which they sell phone cards or other merchandise, acquired through illegal networks. The invisibility of the residents in Paris is the only way to counter the fear of being expelled, of working without permit, of being Muslim in a general atmosphere of suspicion and blame against Islam and the Muslims. The unhygienic conditions of Foyer 93 are, if anything and quite emblematically, the least of the residents‟ preoccupations. Only on occasions of

109 celebrations (Muslim or otherwise) and during the preparation of their return home, do the residents allow themselves more public visibility. This is when they spend more time aiming to be seen and greeted, and in talking to the others at Foyer 93 about their imminent departure; as well as to gather their friends‟ pictures and letters to send to their respective families in the villages. The normality though, at Foyer 93, is that life passes by in anonymity: the risk that fights may erupt is always round the corner, so the residents keep themselves to themselves. This is why those who can share their space with family members are privileged: they can trust each other and have a token family life.

At Foyer 93, the tailoring workshop is a very small barrack in the main court, just opposite the dump. It contains all the paraphernalia useful in a workshop of this kind: sewing machines, a working area made up of a table at which the tailor works (there can be more tailors working, but the area does not allow for more than a person at a time inside the workshop). Rolls and pieces of fabric lie about and are entangled with the electrical wires that provide electricity for both the scant lighting and the machines. A couple of chairs complete the sparse furnishing. The workers at the tailor‟s workshop, like those others at the café bar and the canteen, take it in turns to work for periods of a few months, so that the chance to gain a secure wage is given to the largest possible number of people. Working at

Foyer 93 is a very much sought-after opportunity. People feel safer here than anywhere else, whether they are documented migrants or not. They know the environment in which they are working and they have their own pace of work, as opposed to the one as employer would impose on them. Their working time at Foyer 93 is around the clock and it is relentless. However, they do not feel exploited, as it would be case in other menial jobs.

They are employed thanks to, and for, the community, fulfilling needs that they perceive

110 would otherwise remain unsatisfied. Where would they go to commission the making of a traditional gown in Paris? How much would it cost? How would they be looked upon, in making their requests? The subject of the “ethnicization” of minority groups is well outlined in Fall‟s work (2005), which analyzes the process in which subdominant groups, excluded and marginalised in France, live in community enclaves with their compatriots, the so called repli communautaire (community withdrawal). The way in which this happens, according to the author, is through the assimilative Republican project, in which the universal man is the enlightened Frenchman, to whom the outsider/foreigner/migrant can seek to conform, without ever really accomplishing assimilation.

A variety of residents and customers from outside Foyer 93 make use of the workshop to both stitch up their garments and to make new ones, be they of a Western style or traditional fashion. It is worth noting that in the same way that the preparation of the food is a much gendered occupation in this milieu (and in Southern Europe too!) and exclusively a female one, tailoring is reserved to men. The acquisition of the machines entails a business capacity to earn the money to buy them, which is not granted to most women either in Paris or in Mali. Women in the region of Kayes work in the fields and in the maintenance of the homestead. When they engage in business activities, these are essentially the sale of food and gadgets at market stands, often set up through the money sent by a family member abroad (the husband and/or brother). Throughout Paris, tailor‟s shops also respect this gender division, while of course the clientele is diversified. In the numerous ateliers of Berbès, the borough with the highest West African density,

Senegalese people work in numbers of six and more at their sewing machines, very much like a conveyer belt in industry (another gendered workplace).

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The consultation council gathered on different occasions to discuss the danger of fires in the workshop: if anything cought fire, the whole workshop would burn in seconds, as would the people in it. The possibility of fire was a key problem for Foyer 93, as much as the presence of rats in the canteen and elsewhere in the courtyard. These issues evoke the incontrovertible constraints of class described by Orwell (1989), rendered in the image of a woman fiddling with a stick into a pipe outside her house, clogged by sewage. The workshop had been kept open throughout the time of my fieldwork at Foyer 93, only to have been shut recently. The workshop is nevertheless still there. The residents do not think that its closing down was a reasonable solution since, in fact, they have lost one of their resources. The closure of the tailoring workshop has not been replaced by another space in which such activity can be carried out, nor has a proposition been advanced to that effect.

At the meetings of the consultation council and from the residents‟ knowledge of Foyer 93,

I could gather that, given the relocation plan that is under way for Foyer 93, not much more

renovation work will take place from now on. As soon as a new foyer will be able to re-

house the residents, or some of them (the negotiation is still ongoing as to where the others

will go), Foyer 93 will be completely demolished. The residents‟ future seems even more

unclear and patchy: who will, in fact be re-housed? On which basis will the residents be

chosen? In cases in which even senior residents are in financial hardship and pay their

months‟ rent in arrears, will they be asked to clear their debts before acquiring the right to

be re-housed? Will all the undocumented migrants simply be repatriated? At Foyer 93,

even one delegate at the RC has not been able to pay his rent for a few months. The

AFTAM has deprived him of the right to a bed, which he will retain informally anyway.

The AFTAM, as any other concerned body, faces the reality of managing Foyer 93 as a

112 place in which a market logic, to a certain extent, cannot be applied. Seniors and juniors respect the traditional rules regulating the relationship between the elders and the youth, the cadets. Not only do the elders have the first say about any problem regarding the foyer, but also, those who arrived first retain seniority rights vis-à-vis the more recent arrivals, even if the latter could pay their share. This is motivated by at least two reasons: the first is that there is not any actual space for the newcomers to claim a bed. They can only hope to get some space to sleep in the already over-crowded rooms, sharing the rent with anyone else (if they can) and therefore to be grateful to be offered this opportunity. The second reason is that the only possibility of replacing someone comes when a resident vacates a bed for months or forever. When it is for a short period, the person with the right to the bed decides who will replace him, in order to avoid disputes upon his return. These do not normally arise so often amongst family members or among ranked people, such as the marabout, the imam, the elders and business men, who can choose their entourage in the rooms. Otherwise, fights for a place in the rooms blow up very easily. When somebody with the right to a bed leaves for good, he can either be replaced by the extra roommates who sleep on the floor, or alternatively by somebody of his choice (family or friend): given the long waiting list, replacements of vacant beds are carried out very quickly and often without the AFTAM knowing. Monthly payments can also be paid in lump sums, calculated from the amount of the individual rents by the number of (official) beds in a room. This way, for the AFTAM it is very difficult to ascertain how often beds are re- allocated between roommates.

The night-time scenario, which of course, as a woman, I could not see personally, is already outlined from the above. Foyer 93 becomes a huge dormitory, where people sleep

113 wherever possible: in the corridors and the canteen. To my knowledge people are not allowed to sleep in the café bar, which is already quite a restricted place and which gets locked up once the two barmen leave at 7pm. Makalou, my respondent working in the café bar, kept the keys. There is a strict control over the residents by the clerics and the delegates. Were the residents found to contravene the rules, their reputation would be tarnished and their desire to work in the foyer in the future would be in jeopardy as a result.

News runs fast at Foyer 93.

Mattresses are laid out in the corridors towards the evening, which signalled to me that it was the time for me to leave. To stay at Foyer 93 too late was not advisable, if I intended to keep my position as a respected researcher. The report provided by M&S on Foyer 93 testifies that 10% of the residents talk of prostitution taking place at Foyer 93. According to my informant from Tambakara, Kane, aged 32, it takes place in the toilets, on the second floor, with female prostitutes.

Citing security considerations, the AFTAM has intervened to rid Foyer 93 of all the extra mattresses lying about during the day: in the case of fires, these mattresses would obstruct the exits and the space to walking along the corridors. In addition, AFTAM hoped to diminish in this way the number of people present on an illegitimate basis. One morning, I found Marabata, the “slave”, with the help of other residents and under the supervision of

Mamadou, the president of the delegates, pile them in the court to be taken away or thrown into the already bursting dump. Those mattresses were only a few of the total extra mattresses, given that the amount of people who sleep on the floor at night is almost double the number of those who are entitled to the beds. In general, the extra people sleeping in

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the rooms pile their mattresses on top of the beds or behind the wardrobes. The AFTAM

has no control over the management of the rooms, where the residents enjoy the right to

their own privacy. The action carried out on the ground by the Copaf has moved toward the

recognition of such right by the Mayor of Paris. The foyers and social housing benefit from

the L633-1 Article of Construction and Housing (SRU, 14 Dec. 2000 law)12, according to

which they are private domiciles, whose internal organization cannot be subjected to

restrictions, “other than those fixed by the law” (of the Code). Thus, the residents are able

to use their space (both the rooms and the communal areas appear) with quite considerable

independence.

The residents are to all effects paying lodgers and neither the police nor any other third

party has the right to interfere with the organization of their place. This reinforces the

suspicion under which the residents are kept. The relationship between the AFTAM and

the residents is one of resistance. The former has to enact ministerial restraining orders on

security and budgetary matters, as much as it has a supervisory role on the life of the

community. On the other hand, the latter perceive the AFTAM as carrying out intrusive

surveillance on their already tenuous stability. The residents think that they can solve their

problems internally, provided they pay their rent to the responsable du batiment (RB), a

member of the AFTAM. He is in charge of collecting the rent, by filing a database in

which beds correspond to names, their payments or arrears. It is the residents‟

responsibility to communicate the replacements of previous occupants by new incomers,

when these occur. As seen above, temporary replacements are not communicated to the

RB.

12 The L633-1 Article (and following ones) of Construction and Housing (SRU, 14 Dec. 2000 law) has been implemented by the 13 July 2006 and 23 Nov 2007 amendments to the SRU (Solidarité et Renouvellement Urbain) 2000 law. 115

There are obvious safety and health issues at Foyer 93 that the residents seem willing to ignore. Serious changes in the organization and management of the space (i.e. the suggested standard canteen, the closure of the tailor‟s workshop and so on) would force the community to deal with other management associations, to change the way they live at Foyer 93 and their experience overall in Paris. Foyer 93 is overcrowded, rats sneak in the kitchen, cockroaches crawl in the rooms and the AFTAM, owning and managing Foyer 93, is perceived by the residents as their oppositional reference, which they hardly ever trust.

Nonetheless, the status quo has so far granted them the possibility to live at Foyer 93 according to their own rules. The division of roles in the community, stemming from caste and age hierarchies, the little markets in the court and the jobs in the canteen assigned to the candidates of each village representative at Foyer 93 and so forth would all be put in jeopardy if changes occurred. In a scenario in which the community was to be fragmented into smaller foyers and professional workers introduced, the jobs currently carried out in a traditional way by people in the community would be lost. More crucially, the community, which has so far granted their first entry into France and their ongoing support in Paris, would be weakened and dispersed. The residents are not looking backwards and suffering from an over-attachment to the life they used to live in Kayes per se. On the contrary, two parallel trends are taking place at Foyer 93, within the niche of the community. One allows the newly-arrived migrant from Kayes to find the support of the community in Paris (he is given a place to sleep and a hot meal). Another provides the migrant at Foyer 93 with a series of options, both within and outside the foyer, so that the possibility of staying in Paris indefinitely becomes real. As long as they can send their remittances home, and thus contribute to the wealth of their homeland, their absence from Kayes is condoned. The migrant can now find a place in the community, which does not simply correspond to their

116 place in the village, but also to their present situation in Paris, giving him status, protection and some level of material benefits.

Notwithstanding the residents‟ discourse about their attachment to the village, their

customs and their spouses, another discourse also reveals detachment, in which they have

chosen to live, work and have social and sexual relationships in Paris. What keeps this new

project viable is the community of people who are sharing the daily constraints and daily

suffering with them. For young and not so young rural and often undocumented migrants, a

migratory project to France would become impossible without community networking and

intra-community aid: they would lack both the cultural and social capital on which to build

their existence in Paris. The economic drive, which has brought so many from Kayes to

France, is increasingly being transformed into a subjective drive to be successful and

resourceful in Paris. New ideas of prestige are forming, which do not always coincide with

the dream of the successful migrant returning home, which is now more of a Republican

wish than a reality on the ground.

III. The Residents‟ Committee and the Consultation Council: electoral system and

representation in the foyers.

The SRU (Solidarité et Renouvellement Urbains: Solidarity and Urban Renewal) 2000 law

was the outcome of a national debate in France which started in 1999 concerning the

housing and transport situation of the urban centres and which aimed at their improvement.

It acknowledged that the living expectations and urban design of fifty years ago do not

correspond any longer to the current situation. The density of the population has increased;

the concentration of people in the banlieues and in particular sectors of the towns, and their

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isolation have in cities such as Paris meant that they have become hotbeds of social

degradation and discontent. The foyers scattered within and outside Paris are a concern for

the Mayor of Paris, the managing associations like the AFTAM, ADOMA and ADEF and

the associations working within the foyers, such as the Copaf for Foyer 93. This law, at

least in its intent, wishes to promote urban and social “diversity” and to ease circulation in

the cities in favour of “sustainable development”. Its focus is on urban congestion, poor

housing and improving the provision of circulation and transport. The first aims at fighting

the overcrowding in the suburbs and its social costs by aiming for a better distribution of

the population; the second intends to safeguard the rights of both buyers and residents. The

third, given the bad transport links between the town and the periphery, aims to improve

the service. The status of the residents in the foyer has been decreed for the first time by

this law, which also gives legitimacy to the Residents‟ Committee (henceforth RC) and the

Consultation Council (henceforth CC) existing within the foyers and in particular it

specifies the way in which they are designated.

The RC represents the residents of the foyers in their negotiations with the managing body

and owner of the foyer about everything concerning the organization and expenses of the

foyer and living in them. In the case of Foyer 93, the residents‟ interlocutor is the AFTAM.

The RC is always called upon about all decisions regarding the augmentation of the cost of

living, fitting/development of the building, the life of the community and its internal

cohesion13. The RC has a mediation role between the AFTAM and the residents and

amongst the latter in the case of litigation. The RC has the right to sanction the entry of

third parties into the foyer, such as cultural associations and professionals working in the

13 Bill on the Election of the Members in the RC and CC, SRU (Solidarité et Renouvellement Urbain) 2000 law. 118

“cuisines collectives”, the communal canteens. Only the RC can nominate its representatives into the CC and eventually into the larger committee coordinating different

RCs. The representatives of the residents in the RC, the delegates (les délégués), which can be up to ten, nominate their president, secretary and treasurer. The RC is not considered as an association, yet it has the right to intervene and defend the residents‟ interests in any legal procedure.

Elections of the members of each RC are conducted through a list of potential candidates or by individual candidature. The different managing associations of the foyers choose one or another electoral system according to their preference. The most democratic and representative one is that according to the lists, rather than the self-candidature, which is more individualist and therefore less representative. Foyer 93 follows the first, while others, such as the old SONACOTRA, now ADEF, prefers the second. Elections are carried out through an Electoral Commission (EC) made up of existing RC members, external personalities such as the Mayor or his/her representatives, and associations working for the foyers, whose number cannot exceed that of the délégués sitting in the RC

(therefore, not more than ten at Foyer 93). The president of the EC guarantees the smooth running of the elections and their costs. As ACOPAF maintains, the importance of other parties in the EC is that the elected RC is more visible to other entities external to the foyer

(such as the borough) and more transparency is granted internally. Interestingly, when an existent RC is not in place, the residents‟ representatives in EC are provided by the Comité des Sages, the Committee of the Sages.

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The “Sages” are the maximum expression of the traditional organization of the residents in the foyers. They are the elders, whose opinion is sought over controversies, in case the délégués and other ranked men (such as the imam and the marabout) have not found a solution, or if the matter involving the community is so important as to necessitate a call to all of them to analyse the problem. It is worth noting that in the most precarious and run down foyers, the village and traditional structure is much stronger than in the most modern ones. The so called foyers-taudis or foyers-hovel are the older ones, usually huge buildings with large rooms in which a similar logic of “community access” to that of Foyer 93 is possible. Smaller and newly restored foyers are conceived with the aim of housing migrants from different countries and to have rooms, which can at most host a couple of people. The community organization and representation is in this way hindered and a market logic of housing is applied. In this case, the rent is near to the market price and the relationship of residents/running association closer to that of owner/lodger. The residents are this way trapped between the anvil and the hammer of an impossible choice. They could only achieve better living conditions at higher prices, while dispersing the community and being much more exposed and controlled; or remain in the more affordable foyer-taudis until their legal situation is cleared, during which time their number and self- organization protects them. The choice is impossible in the sense that they have, in fact, no choice. The residents complain about the sadness of not having a normal life with a family next to them. Never a word of regret is proffered about the degradation of Foyer 93, where the noxious presence of rats, cockroaches and fleas impinge on their integrity and dignity.

The representatives in the RC have the right to the candidature after having stayed three months in the foyers (when they have the right to a bed). Their mandate lasts three or more

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years and can be renewed, which testifies to the long periods of residence in the foyers,

contrary to the idea of a fast turn-over of residents. However, young people move on

outside the foyers, especially because their family burden is more restricted compared to

those of the residents who are in their thirties and above, whose responsibilities grow with

the number of family members they have to provide for (children, wives, old parents and

the extended family).

“The CC is the permanent organ of dialogue and consultation between the residents, the

managing association and the owner, if this is different from the managing association”14

The CC is consulted for anything regarding the life of the people and the physical space of

the foyers. Once a year, the managing association must present a budgetary report to the

CC, giving account of the expenses carried out during the year and those expected for the

following one. The majority of the CC must vote in order to issue decisions or changes. In

case of dissent, the proposition (e.g. modification of the public space in the foyers or a

management issue) has to be voted a second time by the CC. If this is rejected again, the

proposition will not pass. This is what it is happening now with the proposed projects in

the canteen. The residents‟ representatives in the CC are chosen proportionally from the

majority lists. In the CC also sit the AFTAM, the Mayor or his/representatives and third

parties (as seen for the EC). The CC should convene at least every 2/3 months. The RC can

demand the presence of an administrator of the AFTAM, according to the agenda. This,

except urgent matters, should be communicated before the meetings, during which a

secretary is designated among those present to fill out the minutes.

14 Bill on the Election of the Members in the RC and CC, 2000 SRU law, Article 3, L 633-4-3. 121

The topics touched during the meetings range from concerns regarding ordinary matters of maintenance at Foyer 93, such as the state of the canteen, the overcrowding of the corridors and public areas and the relocation plan to move the residents into a new foyer in the area, whose construction is under way. On many occasions, the position of the AFTAM and that of the RC, supported by the COPAF, diverge. The points of dissent do not simply show the different positions, but what is at stake for the residents, as I will show in the following section.

i. Where the AFTAM and the residents meet.

The AFTAM is an association founded in 1962 with the purpose of facilitating migrants from the ex colonies find accommodation in Paris and their integration into French society, while promoting the development of their countries through their professional education.

During 1964-65 the AFTAM became involved in projects aiming at the acquisition of ex- factories and their transformation into dormitories-foyers. In the following years, their implementation and expansion took place. By the 1980s, the AFTAM delivered professional and language classes (totalling seven hundred thousand hours), while in 2000, a project was launched called Project d‟Entreprise Associative (Enterprise Associative

Project) networking with other social entities in Paris and in the Île-de-France to co- develop the areas of origin of the migrants. The AFTAM has created a working group involving the residents of the foyers under the AFTAM in their active contribution to the development of their home countries (i.e. economic, educational and medical initiatives).

Since 1999, the AFTAM has started the renovation of a third of its foyers into social residences, housing about three to four hundred people, in cooperation with the Mayor of

Paris. The AFTAM now has the status of an associative enterprise, meaning that the

122 recipients of its actions are the general public in need, therefore not exclusively the migrants residing in the foyers. The idea is that the latter will eventually reside in smaller, more compact and expensive housing. Migrants are less and less considered as a disadvantaged category, needing social aid. The shift is thus from the foyers-taudis to the housing market.

It is no wonder that the projects of renovation of the foyers into smaller residencies at market prices do not meet with the residents‟ favour. This is a conflict point, which the residents, through their representatives who sit at the CC meetings, attempt to bring up at any occasion. After the meetings, the delegates have to explain to the residents the outcomes and proceedings of the consultations. This is when the whole Foyer 93 vibrates with news. The delegates have a great responsibility, since they are the repository of the residents‟ will, which is not undivided. The president of the RC, Mamadou, not only fears that decisions of the CC may not favour the residents, he has to give an account to his fellow residents that is respectful of the existing customary hierarchies, often in opposition with the ambition for social promotion and independence of the younger residents. Even though there is a large consensus among the residents to maintain Foyer 93 as it is (for the reasons explained above), some of the younger residents do not dismiss the possibility of a change, or of minor initiatives such as the introduction of an internet station, about which the elders are not too concerned.

At Foyer 93, the only initiatives of any interest to the residents are those related to development in Mali. Some of the younger residents do attempt language and induction courses, but they are a minority. In the rooms, I observed on a few occasions young

123 residents spell out French words with the aid of spreadsheets, which they had had at the language course. Those who do attend language classes generally attend those run at Foyer

93. The GRDR has established a serious link with Sadiola for example, which is where the most important gold mine of the region of Kayes is situated. Similarly, the AFTAM has become one of the partners in the project called “Telemigrants”, launched in 2006 by the group Telemedia as the outcome of meetings held in Lyon for the “digital linking” of the migrants with their home countries. It was carried out through the intervention of the

Ministries of Immigration, of Integration and National Identity, and of Social Development to benefit the urban centres of Kersiniané and Yelimané in Mali. The press release of the project reads that the founder of the Telemedia Group, Mr Pierre Guillermo, is known nationally and internationally for his expertise in the media domain and for his will to address the “ethnic market”. The Group will fund up to 57% of the cost relative to the study and implementation of the project, which would have been too demanding for its recipients to cover. With the cooperation of the UNFM (Worldwide Francophone Digital

University) and the UNFM (Worldwide Agency for Digital Solidarity) two sub-projects are under way: distance learning and health education programmes. In Montreuil, this translated into the opening of a space adjacent to Foyer 93 for a future internet point, and a call centre within Foyer 93.

During the CC meetings, the AFTAM representatives suggested the installation of an internet connection in the meeting room. So far, both formal meetings and language classes have been held there. If the meeting room became a common room, this would obviously create a critical overlap. So far, the computer facilities have not been put into place. The small space next to the café bar, where barely two people can stand at once, is equipped

124 with a telephone, so that the residents can call as they would in phone centres, without having to go to the nearest one outside Foyer 93. It is closed in the evenings, though open during the day throughout the week. The charges are established by the AFTAM according to the budget, while its takings are used to pay those who supervise the place.

M. Traoré, forty-two, a resident at Foyer 93, one of the Sages and also chef du village at

Yelimané, is one of the beneficiaries of “Telemigrants” project. Another two people at

Foyer 93, also from Yelimané, participated in the project with him. They will network with other people working for the association also put in place by the migrants in the village.

Projects of this kind are only possible when the two ends, Paris and the interested village, co-operate. So far, these are the projects that have been pursued: with the funding available, the migrants and the local mayors (in Paris and Kayes) find better outcomes and in shorter time than with health projects. The creation of an internet point at Yelimané, for example, will provide a source of revenue for those working at it, such as the members of their families and those belonging to the migrants‟ associations in Mali, beyond the obvious benefit of a centre of this kind. On the day preceding his departure to Mali for the inauguration of the project, M. Traoré was caught in the court, next to the market stand, where it is easier to stop for a quick chat, with the excuse of buying kola nuts or sticks used for tooth cleaning. He wore a huge brown cowboy hat, definitely neither traditional nor

European looking. He clearly signalled that something tangible had changed in his life. On this occasion, I greeted him more out of curiosity than because of our reciprocal friendship.

He told me about his departure to Yelimané so I understood: the time had come for him to mark his achievement. He was the recipient of the funds provided for the implementation of the project and his village would benefit from it thanks to him.

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The foyers are not only the place of solidarity in the sense of humanitarian activity and help on behalf of and by community members, it is also where networking and skills are put into practice. It envisions the provision of basic help at the initial stage of the individual migratory trajectory, after which each person has an equal chance. In a way, Foyer 93 marks the passage from Mali to France, as well from youth to manhood. The success of the migratory project is not in itself the exit from the foyers, but the status of the migrant within the community, which for the diasporic Soninké community means increasingly the community in Paris. M. Traoré, not so young anymore and a traditional leader of own village (chef du village), already had a status in the eyes of the community. Nonetheless, not all the residents at Foyer 93 come from the same villages and therefore, his position as a leader at Foyer 93 became acknowledged when he moved from being a member of the Sages to being a delegate in the RC. As Quiminal (1990) has analysed, the distributions of roles upon migration is made through the migrants‟ skills and their ability to make themselves indispensable.

Nevertheless, this is not discontinuous from the concept of reputation as it is formulated in

the village: the one who takes on a title or occupies a position, does so only by virtue of his

accredited skills, which encompass a wider meaning than that of simply being able to do

something. The community only sanctions one‟s expertise when it entails knowledge and

power from which the community can profit. There is a hierarchy of values and time

required to achieve them. In Mali, to become an imam or a marabout entails respectively a

lot of years dedicated to Qur‟anic studies and the recognition of one‟s power, the baraka,

the divine gift, which one has acquired through one‟s virtues as a saintly man, the wali,

therefore demonstrating his proximity to Allah. This is compounded by an understanding

126 of suffering and endurance, necessary to undergo the process, which also tests the value of the person in question. I heard respondents repeatedly say, with regards to someone‟s success: “Gosh he has suffered! He‟s gone through hell to get where he is”, as if it would otherwise be impossible to condone his happiness without him suffering that degree of pain. The residents suffer in France because of their appalling living conditions, because they are away from their country and their loved ones. What modernity does, or indeed migration, is to subvert the time frame of one‟s acquisition of knowledge and its attribution. There is no time in France. The one who is successful must quickly and effectively find solutions, even in realms, such as the spiritual one, which would traditionally require a life-long apprenticeship. I have met imams, marabouts and businessmen at Foyer 93 and at the Mouride mosque alike, in their thirties: in Mali and

Senegal, this would be absolutely inconceivable. There, not only the caste system forbids the blurring of the boundaries, but the age gap, replicated in the ainés-cadets relationship, the elderly and the youth, would relegate the young ones to a long initiation and dependence upon the generation which has preceded them. Migration puts everyone on the same level of suffering and testing: everybody is a migrant and more or less a worker. The comradely atmosphere of Foyer 93 is one positive aspect of the blurring of divisions. M.

Traroré, like the other residents at Foyer 93, had to prove himself in France, in that his traditional status in the community of Yelimané was not sufficient to counter alone the challenges of being in the Diaspora. Foyer 93 puts everyone on an equal footing because there are a number of villages present, all with their own caste hierarchies. Thus, the turning point in Paris is not so much being the customary leader of a given village, since other migrants from other villages are not part of that system and they will not endorse it.

Foyer 93 enacts a modern logic of competition, which goes against caste rigidities and

127 divisions. The village community expands and overlaps with the Diasporic community of

Paris. In the same way as back in the village it was impossible to go beyond the limits of the community, while pursuing ones‟ life project, so it is in France, where the migrants‟ boundaries are now defined by the constraints and hierarchies of Foyer 93, by the Parisian municipality and the French national policies on migration and health. The identity, prestige and time of the migrants in Paris can be attached to the village logic they have left behind only in revised, hybridised or changed forms, which alone can make sense in the material world of Foyer 93 and Paris.

On the one hand, the residents are aware of the corruption of the Malian state and think that if any change will ever occur, it will be through their cooperation with French associations and NGOs. On the other, the associations in France have understood the importance of the migrants‟ link with their homeland, so they have been able to use it in order to mobilise state funding for co-development projects such as “Telemigrants”. The “ethnic market” is attracting important money flows, in line with the national project, foregrounding an ever- increasing presence of French business and social work in the region of Kayes, rich in natural resources (i.e. diamonds and gold). What is at stake for these actors is not so much the development of these regions, as the role they play in helping the migrants in France to achieve it.

Nevertheless, there is also another trend, parallel to this. Some migrants have decided to achieve financial viability in Paris by setting up their own business or by working for other people in the community (in little restaurants, shops selling various items – books specialising in Islam, spices, fabric and so forth). Makalou, a resident at Foyer 93, in his

128 forties (I will come back to him), told me that one could always draw on one‟s own entourage as a resource to provide either recruits or work:

“There are some phone centres [including those next to Foyer 93] that recruit

only the residents of the foyers, because they know each other. If you are not a

resident of the foyer or have not been one, than you cannot work there.”

Residents and ex-residents know that financial success can be temporary, circumstances turn against them: precarious jobs may end suddenly, projects fail. The foyers can be the places of social advance but also, where they can resort to at any time, provided they have not cut off their links with the residents. This is why, even when ex-residents have found accommodation in Paris and settled with their families, they will always go back to pay visits to Foyer 93. The foyer is where their security and community are. Foyer 93 is indeed the Bamako of Montreuil, since leaving the foyer-community would be like leaving Kayes forever.

IV. Gender relationships at Foyer 93.

Foyer 93 is entirely dominated by a male population. The question that confronts the anthropologist in this context is: where do the Malian women live? Have they migrated with, or thanks to, their spouses or remained in Kayes, waiting patiently for their husbands, as tradition demands? Is it true that all of the residents‟ female counterparts are back in

Kayes, as the residents state? Before Independence, as Quiminal and Timera (2002) inform us, a real labour migration had not yet occurred in France, it was then confined to an intellectual or business élite. The ordinance on the droit commun, common rightof 1945, integrated in the 1946 Constitution, regulated the migrants‟ sojourn and acquisition of 129

French nationality, excluding de facto Africans from this right, notwithstanding their

“citizenship in the French Union” in principle (p. 19). We know, in fact, that migration had been up to the 1970s a circular movement, which entailed a few years of work in France, and which did not pose particular problems to the free circulation of this category of people. After Independence and with the increasing number of migrants from West Africa, especially as a consequence of the droughts which have stricken the Sahelian regions in the

1970s, there have been successive modifications to the 1945 Common Right aimed at restricting migrants‟ entry into France and most of all, the permanence of their stay. The

Pasqua law (1993) restrained family reunions, which now can occur only once and can involve only one spouse and their children. In the context of African extended families, the will to curtail them is obvious. Again, after Quiminal and Timera, we gather that the right to live a family life cannot be realised by these migrants, whose housing and financial conditions hinder its realization. With racism and discrimination also contributing, West

African families live in suburban areas, in small and unsafe buildings, generally inhabited entirely by other African people. Therefore, the French law on one hand and the migrants‟ difficulties in pursuing a family project on the other, have joined in preventing migrants‟ family life from being widely attained.

Following the definition used by the INSEE (Institut National de la Statistique et des

Etudes Economiques: National Institute of Statistics and Economic Studies) and issued by the High Court to Integration, migrants to France are those whose prior nationality is foreign to that of the receiving country, had they retained their previous nationality or acquired the new one. In sum, they belong to the first generation of migrants to France.

According to Barou (2002), up to the 1980s only migrants from the African states of

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Senegal, Mali, Mauritania and Zaire numbered more than twenty thousand people in

France, while by the 1990s, according to the 1999 census, more migrants from other

African states appeared. These were the Congo, Ivory Coast, Madagascar and Cameroon

(the first two countries swept by civil war). Thus, even though the number of Malians is important (35,978) and second only to the total number of the Senegalese migrant population (53,859), they now belong to what Barou terms as the “old migration”, given the diversity of the African states now migrating to France. His analysis shows, nonetheless, within the oldest groups, low levels of female representation and few migrants who have acquired French nationality. The INSEE figures comprising the period 1999-

2004 show an increase of 45% in the old migratory groups, within which male migrants outnumber their female counterparts, since the latter still tend to migrate in the context of family reunions.

Given the importance of the family within the customary Soninké groups, the impossibility of settling down in Paris without such a component would be inconceivable, especially in the logic of the current sedentary migrations. Therefore, what are their strategies?

Notwithstanding the ageing of this population overall, the residents at Foyer 93 are relatively young. Those in their twenties and over are likely to be married to more than one spouse and to have three or more children already. Their wives and children are in Kayes.

Single men are the youngest migrants at Foyer 93 and, in most cases, their families have already chosen their future wife. The weddings can be carried out in Mali, in the presence of the marabout, the parents-in-law of the respective families and the bride, without the presence of the future husband. Traditional marriage foregrounds the agreement of the

131 families before the union is sanctioned by the marabout. This way, the physical absence of one of the spouses does not prevent the wedding from happening. This is quite convenient when the future husband is away. Nevertheless, the process is less imposing than it appears.

Makalou, for example, is an exception. He has been in France since he was sixteen and he is now in his thirties. He has always been single throughout his sojourn in Paris. He has acquired a certain economic viability and planned his return carefully, since he had always been a sans-papiér. Makalou is from Sadiola, which is one of the most important gold mines in West Africa. He had good contacts in the local administration and his plan was to return permanently to Sadiola to work in the mine with other people as his dependants. He managed to do so once he cleared his illegal status. Towards the end of my fieldwork, he left Paris. He knew that he would marry “at least three or four women” once there! The preparation of the wedding(s) has been planned for a long time and eagerly awaited. Not only the families of the future spouse(s) have to know each other and agree to the union, but also it can only be carried out once the future husband has achieved enough financial viability to provide for his future wife(wives) and children. The love between the spouses- to-be is by no means the only criterion according to which their marriage is carried out.

Overall, the Soninké women move to France exclusively in the context of family reunions.

They rejoin their husbands in France enjoying the rights provided by the Pasqua law, mentioned above.

As Quiquerez Finkel has pointed out (1995), the question of the African family is central, since there is a discrepancy between the African and French understanding of it. According

132 to the first, the family is constituted by “three axes: kinship, age group and community of reference” (p. 252). Kinship is made of patrilineal and matrilineal blood links, which are both vertical and horizontal. The first is what constitutes the lineage: the descent of people who connect the individual to his predecessors, dead - the ancestors - and alive, up to God

(p. 251-252). The horizontal axis corresponds to the same age group within the family: brother, sisters and cousins, including the sons and daughters of one‟s different mothers, the context being that of polygynous families. The community of reference is the group in which the person lives and with which he shares a life. The Soninké community is exogamic, patrilineal and patrilocal, implying that the future wife moves into her husband‟s house, from her father‟s house, when she gets married. Tradition validates and encourages marital status above all. Women are encouraged to marry, since outside marriage they have no social status, apart from being under the father‟s authority. Widows are supposed to marry one of the husband‟s brothers, so that her marital status (levirate) is granted and her financial security remains unchanged. Divorce occurs rarely and mostly as a result of the husband‟s decision. Women have little social power or control over decision-making.

Upon migration, they suffer even more from their weak position, since they cannot even enjoy the solidarity of their female counterparts as they did back in the village. Migration reinforces the customary and male power relationships, at least in the context of the foyer- communities.

Fofana, one of the residents at Foyer 93, who is twenty-five and from Gori, is married to two wives, who both live in Kayes. When I asked whether he wished to bring one to Paris, he replied:

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“Why? They are happy over there! The family looks after them; they have all they

need. If one came to France, I could not afford the expense: we would have to find

a place of our own. At least at the beginning, she would not be working or speak

French or have anything to do. And the children? Plus, women become impolite

over here!”

Therefore, in Fofana‟s view, which was shared by other members at Foyer 93, France can be seen as the place where family values are corrupted, as opposed to Mali where they are reinforced by the authority of the community and family. They dread their women having greater freedom, which starts in Paris by the latter‟s entry into work and associations. Over time, especially after the 1939 law (idem, p. 210), preventing the migrants from creating associations, was repealed in 1981, the African women‟s associations have allowed them to come out of their isolation and reconsider their position within their family and in society.

Men do not consider this as an achievement. They fear their status in the family diminishes and feel embarrassed vis-à-vis their community members. In their view, female independence upon migration castrates them, when combined together with the transmission of traditional values, at the centre of which are the family (traditional) roles.

Therefore, men opt to keep their spouses in Kayes, until they decide eventually to move outside Foyer 93 and live in France. Such a scenario opens up when the individual has acquired financial and legal viability and the person in question is still generally young.

The young generation favours the idea of settling in Paris, especially because, as Quikerez

Finkel has outlined (op. cit., p. 164), both male and female young Soninkés occupy a weak social position in their society, which is patriarchal and based on the authority of the elderly.

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At the African Association of Women (AFAF), I had the chance to be with these women, become friends with them and talk about their lives. One of these, Aidara, in her fifties, was a very good looking woman. She had lost her husband a few years back. They had had four children together, who all are now grown up. She lives with two of them in the flat she used to share with her husband. According to the custom, she had to marry the brother of her deceased husband, who happened to live in a “Malian” foyer in the thirteenth borough, to the south of Paris. We once visited the foyer in question together, because I asked if I could accompany her. The scenario was not at all different from the one I was already used to at Foyer 93. This other foyer was a seven floor building; it was also crammed with residents and quite run down. At different floors, hairdressers worked and sellers laid out their goods at small tables.

Aidara and I met in front of the metro station on the day of her visit to her husband and then went together to the foyer. The husband was not ready to receive her when we arrived, so we waited with other residents in another room. At first, a long time was spent in exchanging greetings in Bambara. Greetings in West Africa are not just a protocol, in which the interlocutors ask about their respective family‟s health, how things are going and so on, but is also a way of getting to know each other by passing time between themselves in order to get acquainted and study each other. We were offered some small cakes and soft drinks, which Aidara refused, since she was doing a one-day Ramadan: a little sacrifice, as she put it, to honour the fact she was seeing her husband. Eventually she was called by one of the residents, who informed her that her husband was waiting for her. The time she had to wait was due to the fact that the other residents in her husband‟s room had to vacate it to allow them to enjoy a little privacy.

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I have not come across a similar practice at Foyer 93. There the women visiting the residents are family members such as sisters and cousins. Nevertheless, the example of Aidara, also

Soninké, testifies to the fact that such a possibility, even though not common (the wife in this case is an ex-widow, whose second husband happens to still live in a foyer), occurs.

Another exceptional case is that of women who have come to France to rejoin their

husbands, but whose relationship falls apart. M&S shared its findings with me about a

woman who had had a very tense marriage, which did not last. According to the Soninké

custom, this woman would have been sent back to Kayes. She reached out for the help of

M6S, which ensured that she and her children found a place in a hotel for lone mothers.

She did not declare her marriage since, in fact, she was married traditionally and not

according to French law. M&S was unable to disclose further details about this case.

Therefore, I could not verify if the husband kept on living in Paris with other community

members or if he had gone back to live in a foyer, which would be unlikely. In this

eventuality though, he would still fall in the category of “unmarried resident”, which still

conforms to the common pattern of the residents in the foyers.

Thus, the only presence of women at Foyer 93 is that of the cuisinières, the cooks, and the

resident‟s female relatives (sisters and cousins) attending Foyer 93 for visits on Fridays,

after the prayer, and throughout the weekend. Young residents also have partners who visit

them (of African and French origin) and their relationship develops like any other where

the partners live apart, except that the residents can never offer accommodation, be it even

for one single night. This is also disempowering for them, since the woman can always

“tell them to go, when they are angry”. The sexual life of the residents has to take place

136 somewhere else (often cheap hotels or friends‟ houses). This impediment recalls the

Foucauldian institutional control of the body, engendered by the compartmentalisation of the individual‟s sexual life. At Foyer 93, this is extremely evident. The residents‟ lives are fractured: their family life is in Kayes or perhaps some time in the future; their sexual life somewhere in Paris (when they do manage to find a partner willing to accept such constraints) or obtained through prostitution even at Foyer 93; and their social and leisure space, is also dislocated, in nightclubs or café-bars outside the foyer.

The relationship of the cooks with the residents is friendly: they are there to provide their meals, which is one of the main issues especially at the moment with the AFTAM.

Moreover, the residents love the African meals they prepare, not only because they are cheap, but also because they are nutritionally complete and felt to be very nurturing.

Western and African conceptualizations of bodily beauty, together with their culinary habits, vary enormously, as much as variations between different social classes

(Littlewood, 1995; Popenoe, 2003). For the West African residents, a good meal is one that is tasty and filling, far away from the ideas of healthy and dietary food that are current in the West nowadays. The women who cook the food accomplish one of the conventional roles of the woman in West African society, especially in rural areas. The residents view them as among the few people who ameliorate their life in Paris.

The cooks spend a good deal of time at Foyer 93. One of the residents once said jokily that the cooks are their spouses. As a result of their own migratory experience, the latter are aware of the residents‟ problems and of the issues regarding Foyer 93. For example, if the

AFTAM decided to get rid of the “communitarian canteen” in favour of professional

137 restauration, they would lose their jobs. They share the residents‟ lives more than anyone else: not even the residents‟ wives, in fact, participate in the everyday life of their husbands, who are abroad. Provided that the vision of the wife, in Mali as much as in large parts of West Africa, corresponds to the one who waits for her husband and gives him food once he is back home, chats with him about the day and so forth, then the cooks at Foyer

93 are indeed, figuratively, their spouses. They are both young and not so young (some in their twenties, others up to their forties). When they are married, it is likely that their husband, will also, like them, be Soninké. The possibility of working in the canteens of the foyers is partly dependent on the skills of the applicant, as seen above, but also on the connections she has within the foyer. This can be a resident she has long known from back in the village in Kayes or somebody her husband entrusts her to, in order to facilitate her

“application”. These women carry out their duties, which of course, are limited to cooking.

Once their working day is over, at about 8pm, they leave the foyer. Rumours say that a few, amongst them, also prostitute themselves. There is no way I could have ascertained this (I could not stay at Foyer 93 in the evenings). Nevertheless, because a few of them are young and appealing, the rumours may simply be dictated by a few residents‟ frustrated desire and their misconception of a woman who works and earns money.

The cooks do not have to buy the food themselves: it is delivered to Foyer 93 in big quantities by van and paid for through the earnings of the canteen. The residents deal with both delivery and payment, with the consent or supervision of the délégué. The workers at the canteen also have their meals there, once the food is ready and before the peak hours start (12.30pm-2.30pm), without sharing the common areas where the men sit. They use the toilets on the second floor as men do, which is quite inconvenient, yet they have no

138 choice. Moreover, the custom-led organization of Foyer 93 enacts a strict control over the residents and nobody would be interested in harassing the workers, since they would be caught immediately. The workers engage very little with the residents and only occasionally greet some of them, when they pass quickly though the court.

The female relatives of the residents visit Foyer 93 to keep them company. They bring presents or news about their family. At times, they also go to ask little favours: Silla, one of the residents, from Sambaga, once told me:

“My cousin came last Friday because she wanted a leather jacket: she knew I could find it

cheaply in Paris. She came and we spent some time together, we had some food. She came

with her little son as well; it was nice”.

The residents are already in charge of their families back in Kayes, so my respondents never mentioned the fact that their family members in Paris asked them for money. The visits serve the purpose to reinforce the family bond and possibly make the residents‟ life less harsh. The duration of these visits is quite limited since, especially during weekends, the majority of the residents are at Foyer 93: between the ordinary residents and the visitors the rooms become even more crowded than they normally are. This is also why the residents see their family members in Paris. However, their nephews are brought to Foyer

93 much more than their nieces. According to the rules of extended families, the former are the residents‟ “sons”. Sometimes they are left a couple of days in the residents‟ custody at

Foyer 93. This way, these children experience the foyer-community and get their slice of community life. They supposedly absorb the rules and imbibe the community values and habits. Cultural transmission, upon migration, also passes through the foyers. 139

V. Conflict and conflict resolution at Foyer 93.

In this section, I intend to analyse what engenders conflict at Foyer 93 and what are the strategies that are put into place to solve it. I will develop the argument according to three issues: illness, security and age gap. As seen, the community helps its members upon migration in providing a place to stay, a meal and even financial support at the very beginning of the migratory experience, when the newly-arrived still needs to find his base.

Nevertheless, the residents cannot guarantee their help for too long, and moreover, this does not imply that conflicts or ostracism do not take place. The example of Salif

(mentioned above) is quite illustrative.

Salif had come independently to France from Kayes, since his brother had already left

Paris and gone back to his home country because he was ill: he had been diagnosed with syphilis at stage three, which is the final stage and is responsible for mental illness, as

M&S reported. Salif came to know of the existence of the Soninké foyer at Montreuil and decided to try his luck there. Unfortunately, though, he was refused access. He had nobody he could count on to support his entry. He slept for a few months outside Foyer 93 until

M&S intervened and found him a place on the ground-floor. After a few months, he got ill and was diagnosed with the same illness as his brother. Salif never admitted suffering from mental illness, even when he was informed of his diagnosis. He thought that somebody had cast their evil eye on his family. That was his view. Salif was abandoned to himself. At the café bar people joked and greeted each other, yet it appeared as if he was invisible. The residents replied to his greetings, but they would otherwise ignore him.

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Mental illness is conceived of in different ways according to the Soninké understanding of its causes and expressions (see chapter six). In the case of Foyer 93, whatever the causes, as long as the person is not a burden and does not put himself and others at risk, it is simply tolerated. Salif is not the only one bearing the signs of suffering anyway, as there were unfortunately many of these at Foyer 93. One man, who bumped into me as I entered Foyer

93 one afternoon, stopped me in tears and described how miserable his life was and how much it had deteriorated. As all the residents who make a statement on the fact that their life was better before migration, what he meant, of course, was that his quality of life back home, if anything, was human: one of poverty, but not of degradation, in the sense that

Paris seems to offer them. He told me:

“I sleep in the canteen at night; we are all crammed in there. It stinks and it‟s inhuman.

In my village I would at least sleep in my bed at night and be in my family house!”

The sleeping pattern of the residents is dysfunctional: noise at night is such a constant that even getting a little sleep is a treat and when they “wake up”, they have ahead of them a long and uncertain day. Everyone has his burden to carry and tries not to make it heavier by adding other people‟s concerns. In a way, this is rather a case of survival than indifference. In fact, roommates have a sense of each other‟s wellbeing. They spend a lot of time together and in a context of a total lack of privacy, so that changes of mood or uncharacteristic behaviour do not pass unnoticed. There was an episode with an old resident, M. Djiallo, who had retired. He was seventy and from Kayes. He could not see himself as a member of the foyer without going to work. Without a job, the residents have not many places to go to, especially when by doing so they increase the chances of incurring police checks. M. Djiallo restricted his outings more and more, until he stopped 141 going out altogether. He dressed in a work outfit, and had only milk and bread, nutrition with clear metaphorical symbolism. He started losing a lot of weight and alienating himself from the others. His behaviour alarmed his roommates, who signalled the fact to the délégué and by word of mouth, the news spread. While an actual decision was not taken, when M&S set up its periodic health checks, it was informed of the case. M&S took care of him and started psychological therapy with him, first by meeting him regularly at Foyer

93, and then when he had gradually recovered, he attempted journeys to see a psychologist at the nearest hospital of Montreuil. The residents never decide to repatriate their fellow residents before they have been treated in Paris. Moreover, those who have retired must spend a period of at least three months in Paris to have the right to the pension scheme.

Generally, M&S also help the ill through their bureaucratic procedures, so that they may take advantage of the social support to which they are entitled. M. Djiallo was still at Foyer

93 towards the end of my fieldwork, but it is very likely that he might have left afterwards.

At Foyer 93, the elderly have a very ambiguous position. They enjoy their status of ainés, old people, who are those who have a voice in the so-called arbre à palabre, the tree of discussions. In the villages in Africa, men gather under the trees (in Senegal it is normally the leafy and gigantic baobab) where, sheltered by their shadow, they discuss the problems of the village, litigations, projects and so forth. The traditional leader of the village, the sages and the old men take part in these meetings. At Foyer 93, all these people figure likewise, yet the elderly have no effective decisional power. As it has been pointed out, the new arbre à palabre in France is the CC. The délégués, who may also be the sages or village leaders, are those who are aware of the problems of Foyer 93 and who address them. Nevertheless, solutions are not necessarily worked out at the CC meetings, which, as

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I showed above, can instead be grounds of contention, where the AFTAM and the residents‟ views rarely meet or overlap.

Upon migration, the community has to deal with political agents who are external to the community, such as the AFTAM; M&S and the GRDR to solve respectively issues regarding the managing of Foyer 93, or its residents‟ health or co-development projects.

Migrants in France know very well that they have to deal with French institutions. This is part of their political and social behaviour, which they consider external to their daily lives.

Nevertheless, there are concerns that they regulate internally, and this is where the community is involved.

The residents have organised collective savings in the foyers since the death of one migrant in 1973, when they realised they could not deal with emergencies of this kind when they occurred. The treasurer is responsible for keeping the money, which, at Foyer 93, he kept in his locker. The amount was considerable, considering it was the result of about one thousand people contributing to it with about ten Euros each month. While I was in the field, on one occasion an armed group of criminals entered Foyer 93, raided it, killed the treasurer and escaped with the money. Both the imam and Makalou told me about the episode, which of course is of extreme gravity. As the imam Djibril told me:

“At Foyer 93 there are traitors and spies. We don‟t know who they are and that‟s why is

safer to keep on our guard all the time. Nobody from outside Foyer 93 could have

possibly known about the money, its exact location and who the treasurer was.

Obviously, information leaked from the inside. After that, the police raided Foyer 93 one

night: they banged with their truncheons at every single door and made a lot of noise. 143

They scared everyone. I think that they wanted to warn us and show that we are under

control!”

Following this atrocious episode, the residents were shattered and paralysed. They did not respond immediately, especially because the lack of trust and fear hindered the possibility of discussing the issue in order to find solutions. They understood that keeping the money physically at Foyer 93 was too dangerous and that it was no longer viable to do so. The problem was brought to the attention of the president of the délégués, of the sages, the imam and of other respected elderly such as the marabout. Overall, though, at Foyer 93, like in the villages, decisions are taken on the basis of what may prove most appropriate, following a collective discussion. Upon migration, both proponents and decision takers are not the elderly per se, but the members of the different villages represented at Foyer 93 and their delegates sitting in the CC and RC meetings. The residents decided that money should be placed in a bank account. They opened an account for their savings into which anyone can now put his due share. They have created different accounts for the different saving schemes in Foyer 93, so that, for example, those which concern the mosque in the foyer or the construction of a new mosque in Mali are under the imam‟s responsibility: he has access to the account and collects the money. The savings concerning Foyer 93 are under the responsibility of the délégués and those regarding the migrants‟ associations and co-ops are under the responsibility of their leaders, who are both initiators of the projects and the most expert participants. Occasionally, the latter can be the traditional leaders of their villages, but not invariably.

It is important to appreciate that the role of the elderly is fundamental in family relationships, as they make decisions regarding the education of the children, the managing 144 of the family finances and properties (the household, the fields, business activities etc), the choice of the future partner of one‟s son and daughter and so forth. In Kayes, a great deal of the total revenues is provided by the migrants‟ remittances. The family leader, that is, the leader of a household (composed of his spouse(s), their children and his family members) may well also be such a provider. The migrant retains his role in the family in a different way. He coordinates the family interest through those who have remained (his father, brothers and/or elder son), when they have not migrated themselves. When there are expenses to be made or disagreements, he is always consulted, through the numerous conversations that take place over the phone. The translocality or transnational effort of the residents is clear: they contribute to their family and village project from abroad, as if they were there. This is not only true for the younger migrants, but also for the elderly, whose presence is increasing in the foyers of Paris. This engenders hostile relationships between younger and elder generations of migrants both at Foyer 93 and in the village.

Traditionally, the elders should be at the heads of their ka and supervising the work of the younger ones. In the Diaspora, the elderly send their remittances home as any other young male member of the family does. The ageing population of the foyers is a point of concern for the managing associations of the foyers. The old residents, once retired, must still keep their residence in France to have access to their pension schemes, according to the droit commun, the French law or social contract. This way, they have not enjoyed until then the rights of citizens and yet they have to conform as any other citizen to the obligations required to benefit from social schemes. Associations that fight for the rights of migrants are supported by the law (and its amendments) regulating the foyers, which views the residents as “holding a special status” (e.g. as migrants living in social housing and yet having the right to manage it according to their needs; see above). The case of the old

145 residents in the foyers is but a new chapter in the long story of the battles carried out by these associations for the recognition of migrants‟ rights. Achievements and past events punctuate this process, consistent with the number of parties involved, the issues at stake and the political shifts favouring or disfavouring migration in France generally and the residents in the foyers in particular.

The old people are the most displaced and the ones who most suffer the transition from old migratory patterns to recent ones. When they migrated, they were the first to initiate co- development project in Kayes through the migrants‟ associations they founded and the initiatives aiming at resuscitating the agricultural disaster following the droughts of the

1970s. They were also the initiators of a new trend, which saw the importance of the migrants‟ input into the local economy. Historical changes take place over the timescale of different generations, and so it is for Kayes. These migrants, the “old aged men of Foyer

93”, were still subjected to customary rule of their own elders who had not migrated. As

Lavigne Delville has shown (1991), the migrants‟ associations in Mali attempted to maintain the customary rule endorsing the elders‟ role. The latter, in fact, supervised the large scale irrigation system set up in the fields by the migrants. This way, both the profits and the customary structure seemed preserved. Nevertheless, given the increasing poverty of the region of Kayes and the never ceasing migratory trends, what has radically changed, is not so much the role of the youth vis-à-vis the elderly, but the model within which these relationships play out. Migration has always attracted young and skilled people to migrate.

The third migratory trend of our days belongs to a generation of people migrating en masse, both young and very young, who, upon migration and back in the village create

146 their hierarchies of authority. At Foyer 93, those left out are those who arrived to France first and in a way, who opened the way.

This is palpable in the gossips and jealousies, which are widespread at Foyer 93. M. Barka, an old resident from the village of Simbaga once said, dismissing the delegates‟ work:

“They are the delegates of what? They represent nobody here, apart from the women”.

Obviously, considering the role of women within the Soninké group, M. Barka stated that the delegates were, in his view, not men of responsibility, if they were men at all! Men like

M. Barka, sit together in the court, chat away during the day but have little contact with the other residents. They are indeed a minority within the minority.

At Foyer 93, conflict resolution appears to be random. When something dramatic happens, those who have a voice in the foyer (and who are not necessarily the elderly residents) put solutions in place. According to my data, migration itself is undergoing a new phase, which disqualifies a generation of residents who belong to a past in which the centre was still the village. Those who have not returned permanently or have moved out of Foyer 93, pay the price of a changing society, which is building the wealth of Kayes through projects and dynamism. The knowledge of the elder generation is inadequate to face the challenges that technological and educational initiatives throw at them. Those who are aged sixty and over manage to keep their status marginally, either among their family members or among their age group. Their role as fathers, husbands and sons is often limited to the financial demands that the family imposes on them. In the current pattern of transnational

147 migrations, the respect for the elderly and the existing hierarchies are being reintroduced at a price for the generation that engendered the change. Especially because the residents are labour migrants in the global market, they are keeping pace with the times: they understand the importance of long-distant projects and communication, even more so now that restrictions to their mobility are at the crux of their situation. They display different skills and organise accordingly. Tradition, far from being abandoned, is sanctioned through the same figures of the past, who are also now migrants.

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Chapter 4

Society and Islam at Foyer 93.

I. Class and caste divisions.

In (West) Africa, family names bear witness until this day of clan and caste affiliations, partially still present in the Soninké society. The Soninké ethnic group is part of the larger

Mande population, descendants of the Empire of Ghana or Wagadou Empire (750-1240).

They “formed a principal element in Ghana, namely a class of court functionaries and administrators. Their family names and titles (Sylla, Doukouré, Niakhate, Nimaga and

Konaté) can be found without change among the Soninké (…) Later this class gave rise to the Mandé-Jola and Marka, who migrated from the Wagadou during the decline of Mali

(…)”; it seems that the “Soninké clans specialized in trade, Islamic scholarship and law who migrated into the Mali provinces (…) and further East and South (Massing, 2000, pp.

288-9). The Soninké Wangara, traders of gold and salt at the time of the great trans-

Saharan trades, can be identified with the Malinké, princes and warriors (ibid, op. cit., p.287). The Empire of Mali (1230-1600) was founded by Soundiata Keita (1217-1255), a

Malinké, whose epic is sung by the griots, bards who chant the praises of the Soundiata‟s

Empire and are the repositories of the oral tradition.

At Foyer 93, one can hear recurrently the above family names, which are intensely pronounced to underline the recognition of their traditional meaning. A Keita or a

Koulibaly would say out loud that they belong to these families. The Touré are for example of slave descent and often people joke about their implicit low social status. The residents intercalate their surnames upon greeting and shaking each other‟s hand, such as the following exchange between Doukouré and Kolis, both functionaries‟ surnames:

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K: “Ah Doukouré! How are you?”…

D: “Koli, everything fine and you?

K: “Fine. And the family?”

D: “Good, thanks to God - and work?

K: “Busy, busy. I‟m a bit tired, but fine!

D: “OK, Koli, see you soon”

K: “Doukouré, see you soon”.

Upon migration and at Foyer 93, as seen, the roles are distributed according to the skills and the respective contribution of residents to the wellbeing of the community. People like

Marabata, of slave descent, bear witness to the eclectic negotiation of traditional values and pragmatic needs; or rather, show the passage between a society in which the former might have had their roots, to the migratory reality, in which these can only be applied in a revised or contextual form. Traditionally, among the Soninké community, the slaves would be part of a family unit in which they worked and lived, without aspiring to any social advance. The slaves would have been the brute labor force in a compound and in the fields and be relegated to the menial jobs the household required. At Foyer 93, Marabata is known as “the slave”. He is in his late forties and he is from Tambakara. He is not supposed to have paid work, since his role is that of serving the community; therefore, he is granted free meals at the canteen and pocket money for his personal needs. He spends most of his time, like many others, at Foyer 93 or in the neighborhood during spring and summer, when the weather is mild. He often supports the delegates in coordinating and carrying out cleaning jobs in the foyer or downloading the deliveries, in contacting and finding people at Foyer 93. If the delegates are the official representatives, Marabata is

150 nevertheless a further interface, the informal and yet vital intermediary to get into the community at Foyer 93. When the delegates or the imam are absent, nobody would speak to you, unless Marabata has somehow introduced you to the residents, showed you around the foyer, been beside you at the forge or at the canteen and most fundamentally, accepted your query. His role is then finished. Marabata and I have become friends over time. He would therefore greet me, share jokes with me and offer me (soft) drinks at the café bar. He is still an undocumented migrant but a senior resident at Foyer 93 too. Because of his role in the foyer and the support he gets from the residents, he experiences the marginalization of being a illegal migrant in Paris, yet he has acquired within the community a higher reputation than that he would have enjoyed at Tambakara. One resident said this about him:

“He is good. He is one of the few who do something useful here! He really helps and

works hard.”

At Foyer 93, Marabata‟s social status has advanced both vis-à-vis his community in Kayes and that in Paris. Many like him, in fact, are undocumented migrants and do not have job.

Yet, unlike him, many do not even have a bed, whereas he lives on the third floor with other senior residents and, probably because of that, he also has a landline in the room.

Moreover, the rooms on the upper floor are a slightly quieter, since they are further away from the hubbub of the court. Nevertheless, at night people pour into the corridors of the upper floor too, so the advantage of those rooms may be during the day or over weekends.

Marabata has never been back to Kayes during the whole time of my fieldwork, nor had he planned to. He would inform me about who had gone or just come back, as if that privilege did not also belong to him. Marabata is very emblematic of what I argue to be illegal 151 migration, that is, the modern face of slavery. Illegal migrants find their marginal space within a European society, which still exploits and discriminates against them.

The griots add to the social composition and divisions of the Soninké society. They are, as already stated, the repositories of the Soninké oral tradition. They used to chant the epic of

Soundiata, the genealogy of the aristocrats, by heart or by way of improvisation, being able to memorize complex kinship relationships, the anecdotes regarding them, mixing reality and fantasy, in a fictional semi-historical representation of the facts. At Foyer 93, Diana was known as the griot. He was no longer a resident of the foyer, but he still came for visits over the weekend and spent a good deal of time around the court and the café bar. It was not difficult to hear him perform, since he would do so to praise the people he knew.

Once, he even started a little chanting praise for me, until Makalou interrupted him (it was not rare that the residents felt jealous of other residents‟ skills and status and attempted to cloud their position by way of mockery or, like in this case, by silencing them). According to my respondents‟ accounts, a griot would be attached to one family, whose praises he would sing and receive money for his services. The griots are no longer affiliated with renowned families as their patrons, yet they still sing, especially in Europe, during public celebrations. They receive donations because of their role in the community and enjoy much appreciation and affection. Doukouré, one of the delegates would say about them:

“The griots have sung our history and they keep on doing it. They can remember the

whole history of Mali, of the most important families, of any single member, what

happened to the head of the family, to the wives and cousins and all of this by chanting

with amazing talent!”

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The project of Francophonie (the French language cultural sphere) is now in vogue in

France. It promotes cultural and leisure events, at the crossroad of national pride and the appreciation of its pluralist identity. In this context, for example, the griots have become very popular in Paris. Griots and griottes (female) sing in nightclubs and during summer festivals, adapting their traditional role to the market vogues and transforming it into cheap entertainment for the general public. Their artistic and social role remains in the background, only surviving in its original meaning within the Soninké enclaves. The griots and the iron makers are castes in their own right. Thus, they marry within their caste, even though marriages are not otherwise endogamous. During public celebrations, women belonging to these castes are exempt from cooking, a duty that is instead carried out by professional cooks or by women not belonging to these two castes.

In February 2006, the residents organized a special night at Foyer 93 to create a little festive atmosphere. The canteen remained open until midnight, so that food was provided throughout the day and during the celebration. People from the Soninké community attended the venue, generally couples with their children. The griot sang for hours his repertoire, while quite a number of residents gave him money during the performance, intervening with dance steps and engaging with the griot in the midst of applause and encouraging whistles coming from the onlookers. The donation of money is an important gesture, testifying to the acknowledgement of the value of the griot in the community.

Women from the community and a few one young ones from the canteen also participated in the dances, creating a very joyful and entertaining moment. Donations (sadaqa) can be carried out on various occasions and with different purposes: for example, at Muslim and community celebrations, and when visiting the marabout. In the village, the exchange may

153 entail the gift of food, artifacts and fabric. It is upon migration that money has become the common currency to express gratitude and has acquired, in turn, social value. Even though the gift of money should be optional and according to the means of the person who provides it, to give too little money, even amongst the residents, who are poor, is shameful.

In the Sahel region, with the impoverishment of the arable lands due to the desertification process, the importance of technical equipments for irrigation supersedes that of agricultural labour. This way, the input of revenues, sought through migration, is now estimated to be of greater value than that of food. This has not only engendered greater commercialization in social relationships, but also different power relationships within the family. The women, whose husbands have migrated, are totally dependant on their husband‟s parents and family, who control them and the money that their husband sends home. They have no access to it and their role is further diminished by the fact that their husband is absent.

Overall, at Foyer 93, there are tensions among the residents, which nevertheless are generally not due to the class divisions which rather provide stability and order. In fact, any social group supplies the specific need each one of them traditionally fulfills, with different considerations with regard to Islam, craftsmanship and leadership - the main traditional elements of the Soninké community. The iron makers are one of these. Their milieu is hereditary and initiatory. Its adherents must descend in a lineage of forgerons, iron makers.

In the koma cult (see chapter six), the iron makers circumcise male children to mark their entry into the cult. From Kanté (1993), an iron maker himself, we gather the following

Mandé traditional praise on the iron makers (passed on by the griots):

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“The iron makers are men of art! Soumaro, the bow master, he sat on his throne for long!

If one has to nominate the iron makers, then the name is Kanté. If you want to hear more,

then one has to call upon the Bagayoko (…), the Sinaba, the Synayoko (…), the

Kamissoko and the Cissoko” [my translation from the French version].

Once again, family names record and testify to the caste affiliation by descent from illustrious eponymous exemplars. Traditionally women, in the iron makers‟ caste, are potiérs, makers of vases, and responsible for female excision, while their husbands carry out male circumcision. The iron makers cannot marry people from other “nyamakala”, carriers of occult power, that is, other castes, in whose respect they are superior” (p. 25).

Men work the iron and wood, while women the clay. The iron makers are considered to have a privileged relationship with the “jinn of the earth, wind, water and fire” (p. 15), that is the natural elements, which they can either mould or work through fire. According to tradition, the iron makers are conceived of as the “most educated people and as the initiators of all the great domains of society, by knowing the secret of the earth and fire”

(p. 25). This knowledge, enabled by their relationship with the jinn, allows them to master divination, healing, craftsmanship and intervene in marriage mediations. Within the cast of the forgerons, there exist other subdivisions. Those of the Fané family and Bambara descent are the “pure forgerons”, while the cadets, the young ones, are those of the Kanté family, of Malinké milieu, descending from warriors and slaves married into iron makers families at the time of Soumaworo Kanté. Warriors could demand of the iron makers weapons and armour, but a few also joined them in the production and continued even after the wars (p. 28).

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In what way do the iron makers at Foyer 93 reflect such a historic and traditional background and what kind of relationships does this engender vis-à-vis the other groups?

As stated above, in the middle of the court, is the forge, at which around ten people work every day from morning to evening. Their hammering resonates at every corner of Foyer

93. The forge looks like a cave, as it is made of brick walls (contrary to the tailor‟s workshop) and the floor is laid in clay, upon which big rectangular stones serve as seats, which are positioned next to the source of fire, fuelled by a power hose. All around are buckets of water, used to cool down the red-hot steel or gold. The forge stands as another reality from the café bar, the market stand and the tailor‟s workshop. Because it is a caste of its own, those who work there only belong to iron makers‟ families, those who by lineage descent have kept the tradition alive. It would be impossible for anyone to improvise the job in Paris, since it is hereditary, and the rule is very firmly adhered to also at Foyer 93. Contrary to the marabout, who can carry out divination without belonging to a maraboutic family, the iron makers distinguish themselves by keeping their tradition no matter where they are, be that in the village or in Paris.

Simaga and Sambaké are forgerons. Both do not live at Foyer 93 any more, or rather, just in their own way. They both used to be residents of the foyer, which they now still use as the place of their daily activity or dwelling. Simaga is thirty and Sambaké a year younger.

Both from the village of Diafouné, they came to France by plane as they put it, as if to say that they have not reached Europe by boat, this way distancing themselves from those who did and who of course, had less means than they did. Simaga speaks impeccable French, knowledge that obviously dates back to his schooling in Kayes. As Gounongbé (2009) points out, the effort that is required of the migrant to integrate to/assimilate French values

156 and rules, has already taken place for many of them already in Africa. This author defines it as “the colonization intra-muros”, which should stimulate likewise and belatedly “the autochthons‟ effort of accepting and integrating the migrant” (ibid, p. 33).

Sambaké is an iron maker by family tradition, but he does not practice at Foyer 93, because

“he decided not to”. His apparently simple answer became clearer to me, once Simaga, who works instead both at Foyer 93 and at his workshop in Paris, explained to me that each iron maker has its own jinni. Simaga has learnt the job from his father, by standing next to him and producing simple tools. Simaga told me that the jinn choose you, when you have acquired enough experience and maturity. He admitted not having a jinni (pl. jinn) yet, but he still has enough knowledge to be able to work at the forge and produce jewelry on demand. This way he can make a living and afford residing outside Foyer 93. The iron makers have their own routine in the foyer and mingle very little with the other residents.

Sylla, who would condemn them as “bad Muslims”, wanders around the forge and greets his friend, whom he knew from the village. The fact that the residents do not interfere with their job is due to respect. The iron makers are indeed a caste, a few descending from the

“pure” families of forgerons, reputed to have divinatory and healing powers. At Foyer 93, it appears as if the two realms are separated, wherein the marabout carries out the first and the iron makers the second. As Simaga told me, their domain is anything to do with fire.

He explained:

“If somebody gets burnt or there is smoke involved, they call us. This has already

happened in the canteen: there had been a great leak of smoke and one of the cooks

fainted. We went over and helped resuscitate the lady. Another time, one got burnt and

bled from having cut herself too. She came up to us, the blood still trickling down from 157

her hand. We said a few words and the blood stopped immediately. When we do that,

everything disappears. You won‟t even be able to see a scar!”

The iron makers at the forge are overall very young and their mediation, which might concern them in the village, such as providing information about the ancestral past of the married-to-be, is of no use at Foyer 93. Decisions about marriages continue to be made by the families back in the village where only the elder iron makers are consulted.

As Stoller points out (1995), if collective memory is made through rituals, anthropological analysis has missed the opportunity of distinguishing between practices of “inscription and incorporation”, whereby ethnographers have construed rituals and societies as texts, immersed in a cultural discourse. Thus, he says, the visual and descriptive methods have won over the sensual aspects of ethnography, in which the body, also represented in anthropology as a text, is also the locus of power relationships and memories. The collective body enacts its past as a habit in postures, formal acting and movements, but also allows for and marks change for the future. The embodiment of culture, no matter which community is under investigation, is certainly made through the “incorporations” of which the ethnographers have to give account. If the ritual is the human relationship with the sacred, as Durkheim has argued, it is indeed not a static nor unchanging relationship, provided it is a performance which takes place at a given time and in a social context.

The iron makers at Foyer 93, reproduce in their daily practice the knowledge that they inherited from their fathers, in relationship with the jinn, whether imaginary entities (as

Stoller seems to argue) or real ones, now in the context of migration and uncertainty. Their social role as a caste is curtailed of meaning, given the absence of the entirety of the 158 community, that is, women, children and elders. Traditionally, they would be the initiators of the new generations to society, be it through circumcision, or by affiliation to the cult of the koma, the iron makers‟ cult of the jinn, in which they officiated together with the priests and the elders. At Foyer 93, their role and their ritual has become a lay one, in which the young can do for the community what they have learnt in Kayes, since the majority of them do not have a spirit guide yet. As Last has argued (2007, p. 7), the West

African spirit realm has shrunk on contact with the West and if this is the trend, traditional healing will be limited to simply herbal knowledge for physical ailments. The iron makers in Paris produce jewelry of the utmost beauty for both men and women, African and

French. In France, their status is cast within the limit of the community in two ways.

Firstly, because the spiritual dimension of their craftsmanship, even though reduced, is still enacted when the residents seek their help to heal minor bruises and burns in the body.

However, rather then being the initiators in the rites of passage of circumcision and marriage, they respond symptomatically to episodes of physical injury, also often attributed to the jinn, the cause of malaise and illness. Secondly, and not disjointed from this, the community‟s collective memory is somewhat of an agency of the past, whose survival in

Paris is reduced, segmented and minimal, facing uncertainty and risk.

As Simaga explained to me, the jinn are the hidden double of the humans. It is impossible to give them a name, since they are so many and of different species. There can be Muslim jinn as much as Muslim iron makers‟ jinn. The marabouts and the imams and the great village leaders also have one. Being part of the iron cast implies that the father or the grandfather who had the secret, that is, the jinn with which he is in relationship, passes it on respectively to one of the sons or grandnephews who will carry on that relationship. In

159 other words, even among the forgerons families, not every member is made part of the secret. The jinn inspire the work and are a guide. It is vital that he who has one, does not betray it. The jinn, in fact, appear in human form or, even if invisible, manifest themselves by asking for allegiance in exchange for power. Allegiance to the jinn implies a pact of honesty and purity. Simaga would tell me:

“If you betray your jinn, you can call upon it as much as you like, but it won‟t come.

He‟ll sulk at you because you lied, or because you told the secret to somebody who

shouldn‟t have known, or because you harmed somebody or stole money etc.

Nevertheless, sometimes the jinn choose you even if you are not an iron maker. They can

take human form, come to you and ask just €5, only €5! It‟s a test, you don‟t know that‟s

a jinn, but if you accept and help him out, you‟ll become his counterpart. That‟s how

many have one. It‟s not by chance that one becomes a marabout, another imam and

another village leader.”

Simaga explained that at Foyer 93 there used to be a very old resident, already retired, who had eventually returned to Kayes at the time of my fieldwork. He used to carry out circumcisions, as seen above, one of the main social roles of the iron makers. More on this from Simaga:

“He was an old resident of Foyer 93 and he was also the only one who could do

circumcisions. Young people cannot do it; it‟s not the technicality of it that is difficult.

It‟s that you must have had your jinni, passed on to you. What the iron maker says during

circumcision is secret and it‟s not from the Qur‟an either. During the ritual the iron maker

cuts the skin of the male child and blood comes out, but we can make the child recover

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much more quickly than if he went to the hospital. Nevertheless, many now also go to the

hospital, they are afraid that it might not be too hygienic, especially after the doctors

complained about it.”

II. Islam among the Soninkés in France.

According to Timera (1996), the practice of Islam among the Soninké migrants has known different phases, which correspond to the chronology of their accommodation process.

During the 1960s (pp. 166-170) Islam was not practised much and few would practise

Ramadan and pray in the foyers. They perceived France as the place of the unfaithful ones, the kafirs, where they should not plant roots, therefore meeting the precepts of the good

Muslim who, while living abroad, conceived of their stay in France as temporary. Over the

1970s and 1980s, mobility to France become more and more prevalent in the community and their permanence in Europe more accepted, so that the community was confronted by the necessity of reformulating Islam transculturally: finding ways to practise it abroad and justify its worshipping in the kafirs‟ lands. The Soninkés started to open their daawa

(organizational centres akin to the Mouride dahiras – see following chapter), inspired in its most rigorist reform movement by the Wahabyya. Their faithful were called sunnagummu, as they aspired to return to the “purest” tradition of the Sunna. In the end, the movement could not create an alternative to the essentially political/social organization of the Soninké community in France (ibid).

The first Soninké daawa in France, which gathered a host of worshippers, was that founded by Mamadou Diana, from the village of Soninkara, Mali. He studied the Qur‟an in

France and only after his return from Morocco in 1974, did he start preaching at his dawwa among his compatriots, spreading his message around the Soninké foyers in Paris, Le 161

Havre and Lille. Timera suggests that the growth and success of the daawa was intended to provide the Soninké of France with a motivation to practise Islam; back in the village such a role was fulfilled by the family and the moodi, the marabout (spiritual leader), both absent after migration. Qur‟an and Arabic classes started taking place in the foyers, enhancing the importance of literates and intellectuals, such as the imams, over the marabouts. Among the Soninkés in France, the Islamic awakening meant a contraposition to the lineage authority in the village in favour of the clerics, which contrasted with their secondary role back in the country of origin. Mamadou Diana was later assassinated, his death apparently linked to the project of building a mosque. The role of the daawa lost its vigour, so much so that Islam among the Soninkés is now more a matter of personal devotion than a phenomenon organised around a daawa (pp. 175-178).

Islam as it is now practised at Foyer 93 centres around the figures of the imam (the leader of prayer) and of the marabout. Within the Mouride community, as I will show, the relationship imam-marabout is reversed, in that it maintains the traditional power of the marabout over the imam. The Mouride community is a Sufi branch of Islam, where the spiritual leader is conceived of as a saintly man, a wali, whose proximity to Allah confers on him the gift of baraka, divine power. Amongst the Soninkés, whose Sufi particularity has faded away, even the marabout embodies customary and clerical features rather than saintly virtues. At Foyer 93, hardly anyone kept a personal relationship with his marabout back in the village, as it is case for the Mourides (in contact with their personal marbouts in

Senegal). Nevertheless, contrary to what one may expect, there are practising marabouts at

Foyer 93.

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Diop and Michalak (1996) inform us that the first mosque in a “black African residence appeared in 1967, at the ground floor of foyer „La Commanderie‟, in the nineteenth borough of Paris”. “In 1977, a second foyer” opened its doors to a mosque and “now almost all of them have prayer rooms, which are subsidized by all residents of the foyer, whether Muslim or not” (p. 82). “The UNAFO, the principle organization of black African foyers, has 126 foyers in the Île-de-France region of which 119 have prayer rooms” (ibid).

As Allievi points out (2009), the first problem concerning the mosques probably concerns their definition: there is no precise anthropological definition of them, other than being

“places open to the faithful, in which Muslims gather together to pray on a regular basis”

(p. 17). Allievi names by importance three categories of mosques. The first are Islamic centres, whose locales provide a prayer hall and areas used for educational and social purposes. The second corresponds to the mosques “built ad hoc, with visible size of a dome and one or more minarets (the masjids)” [p.18], while in the third, mosques called musalla might apply to the mosques set up in the foyers. “Musallas may be located in industrial buildings, warehouses, former shops and apartments. They may only serve to host the activity of prayer, but more often other activities are also performed there (e.g.

Koranic schools and other educational events). Within this category we also find „ethnic‟ musallas, which are attended only by members of one ethnic group, usually on the grounds of language (non Arabophone ethnic groups, for example)” [ibid]. In Paris, there is an

Islamic centre in Barbès, where thematic film screenings, seminars and even dhikr rituals take place. Films on West Africa and the marabouts are a very popular subject, and it is possible to observe quite a mixed public presence, participating in very interesting and animated discussions (I will come back to this in the next chapter). The great mosque of

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Paris is a clear example of a masjid. It was built in 1926, when the French government started a process of recognition and integration of Islam in France and particularly of its

Muslim citizens. The institution of the French Muslim Council served the same purpose (as seen, Laurence, 2006).

.pl) مسجد,According to the Encyclopaedia of Islam (2010), the mosque, masjid

.”is the place of Muslim worship; it literally means “place of prostration ,(مساجد,masājid

The jami-masjid, is the Friday mosque. As Allievi suggests, in Europe it is probably not useful to distinguish further between the weekday and Friday mosque, since the two overlap. Notwithstanding that Islam is the second religion of France, its visibility, in terms of ad hoc prayer halls, is relatively limited. The figures that Allievi produces are the following: 5.5 million Muslims, yet only 2,100 prayer halls, while “only a couple of dozen are the mosques built ad hoc” (Allievi, op. cit., p. 26). This confirms that the majority of the prayer rooms are either musallas or occasional places, such as one‟s residence.

Amongst the Mourides, for example, it occurs that the faithful meet at their Mouride friends‟ houses to sing the dhikr. It often works out better for them than meeting at the

Mouride cult centre, situated in the suburb, about forty minutes by train from central Paris.

From an architectural point of view, the mihrab is the niche hosting the sancta sanctorum of the mosque, the Qur‟an, towards which the Muslim faithful have to turn their face when praying (Stierlin, 1997, p. 235). The mihrab, symbolizing prayer, is situated along the kibla, the wall oriented towards Mecca. The imam, a term that literally means “who is in front” (ibid), leads the prayer facing the congregation and addresses it after the prayer with a sermon, the khutbah. Amongst Shiite Muslims, the imam is also the leader of the

164 community. This not the same for the Sunni Sufis, who identify their community leader in the marabout. The Soninkés, as the larger part of the Maghreb countries, follow the Sunni tradition of Malike ritual, one of the four schools of Islamic law, the madhahib. The others are: the Hanafi (common in Turkey), the Shafi'I (in Egypt, Syria, Iraq and Africa) and the

Hanbali (found in Arabia)ones. Imam Malik ibn Anas (8th century AD) founded the former, interpreting the “statutory divisions of the local societies and a number of traditional practices of Islam” (Timera, idem, p. 186). For example, the Maliki ritual, embraced by most of the West African Sunni, choose their imams from a “generation of muallim [teachers] trained in North African Universities (at Cairo, Tunis etc), contrary to the “heterodox” Kharijite use of selecting them amongst the local lineages – as Khaldoun testified (Massing, 2000, p.286). Sunni Islam refers to collections of the Qur‟an whose authors compiled them in the ninth century C.E., while Shiite Islam, among other differences about Mohammed‟s successors, refers to the collection called Akhbar.

At Foyer 93, Friday prayers take place in the court, since the prayer room is very small.

Overall the foyer is open to all and this is the case during the prayer. Nevertheless, people from other communities rarely turn up, unless these are other Muslims, who know somebody in the foyer and wish to pray together. Samba, a Senegalese from Dakar, used to attend Foyer 93 over weekends, because it was on his way to his workshop where he produced jewellery. The Minkowska Centre put me in contact with him. He was a patient there and also a Mouride (I will return to him in chapter 6). The prayer rooms are very much ethnically based: the groups rarely mingle but rather show pride in distinctiveness, in which it appears that each one of them thinks that they are the best Muslims. Even though

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Islam may be the external identity marker, each community practises it within his own milieu.

III. The imam and the marabout at Foyer 93.

In the Maghreb and Sub-Saharan countries, the notion of marabout or cheick is used to identify the spiritual leader, often at the head of a zawiya, sacred pilgrimage centre, or the initiator of a new Sufi order, whose teaching he is bound to perpetuate (as a muqaddam).

The marabout is the unique master of his followers, who resort to his spiritual knowledge to be guided in any circumstance regarding both their ordinary and devout life. According to my respondents, there is confusion in Europe on who is a marabout, as opposed to a healer: they are both equally assimilated as synonyms of charlatans. This vagueness in definition and identification only pertains to the French though, since anyone coming from

(West) Africa would know the exact difference. In my respondents‟ view, those marabouts sponsoring their activity in Paris betray, by doing so, their commercial aim, and therefore the fact of being charlatans: marabouts capable of performing prodigious healing would not be in France in the first place and their renown would spread regardless of their sponsoring activity. It follows that those practising healing supported by the formulas of the Qur‟an and herbal remedies are “minor marabouts” or experts, as it were, of the Qur‟an‟s medical potential. Saintly men live in their country of origin, since they are leading figures in their community; they only move to Europe to carry out their pastoral visits. Thus there appears to be varying understandings of the notion of marabout within different communities, respectively Mouride, Soninké and French. Among the Mourides, whose practice of Islam is Sunni and Sufi, the marabout is the leader of the community of faith. No healing is ever mentioned with regards to the marabout in this milieu, since it is the healer who can help

166 with herbal remedies and who can deal with the jinn, supported by his knowledge of the

Qur‟an. On the other hand, among the Soninkés, the marabout is the one who can “see things”, meaning the postulant‟s problem. The best marabouts, in this sense and context, are those with greater spirituality, which, in turn, is testified by their ability to understand their client‟s situation “at a glance”, and possibly, by the positive outcome, which, a fortiori, proves the former‟s relationship with the jinn.

At Foyer 93, the imam is Djibril. He is a man in his sixties, from the village of Gori. He had come to France in the 1970s, when the increased Soninké and, more broadly, African migration to France enjoyed few restrictions, and moreover, more adequate job opportunities. He has now four wives back in the village and twelve children. As he states, any journey to Gori is an occasion to increase the family: during my fieldwork in Paris, he went back once for the birth of his baby girl. Since he has retired, namely, due to the obligations of his residency in France, which he has to fulfil in order to obtain his pension,

Djibril returns to Africa at least twice a year. The CAF (Centre Allocations Familiales,

Family Allowance Centre) carries out regular checks on the effective presence of the retired migrants in France, and it does so by checking the stamps on their passports. The

CAF does not pursue the same procedure for retired French citizens, showing a degree of inequality, even on the basis of the same social contract which they advocate to carry out those checks. At Foyer 93, Djibril lives on the second floor with his family members: two brothers, three cousins and a nephew. As I have described elsewhere, he is in a privileged position, for his status and the chance he has to live with his family members. It occurs, though, ever more frequently given the increasing number of people in the foyers that people pour into his room at night, begging him for some space on his floor.

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Djibril is a friend of the owner of the local laundry, a kind man of Algerian origins in his forties, also a Muslim. They chat for hours about the unbearable situation at Foyer 93, about their home countries and Islam. Often Djibril spends hours, even after eleven o‟clock, at the laundry. He and the owner of the laundry keep each other company, since they have consolidated a good friendship. The laundry also hosts a telephone centre, where

I used to go to call my respondents before attending Foyer 93. This way, over time, I got to know the owner better and sense Djibril‟s discomfort through his friend‟s accounts. Due to either decency or shame, Djibril would rarely talk about them with me: men are not supposed to moan to or share their worries with women.

Following his retirement, Djibril has spent much more time at Foyer 93. He can relax in the afternoons, taking advantage of having the room free, because his family members have gone to work or simply gone out. In the mornings, people in the room take turns to clean the floor and even to iron his garments, duties that his wives would have otherwise carried out back home. His landline phone rings often: it may be because relatives call him or the other people in the room or somebody asks for his services as imam. Djibril carries out marriages, naming cerimonies and mourning rituals after the Muslim ritual. People in the milieu who know him for his reputation contact him. He has learned the Qur‟an in his village at a Qur‟anic school, he speaks fair French and, most of all, he reads Arabic. At

Foyer 93, he was the second imam. The previous one, who had become too old, eventually left him the place. He has been the only imam at Foyer 93 for the past five years.

When Djibril goes to the suburbs to officiate, he is escorted by Djana, his sister‟s son, who drives the car. He dresses in his traditional garment, which includes his traditional gown, a

168 large scarf around his neck and the traditional hat. At Foyer 93, Djibril is in charge of the savings for the mosque. One of the five Muslim pillars is the zhakat, annual tithe, which sanctions the obligation to help people in need, and generally the poor. The residents donate their money to the imam, who, once he has collected a considerable amount, places it into the account. For security reasons, as explained above, the residents are no longer willing to store the money at Foyer 93. The imam has the code of the account and of course, he is the only one who can withdraw it. Nevertheless, the money can be an extra source to which the residents resort when the village savings (there are as many savings as the villages represented at Foyer 93) are insufficient.

Djibril has little contact with the other residents in public; when he goes into the courtyard, it is to get in or out of Foyer 93. He nevertheless receives many visits in his room from people who must have a legitimate reason to demand his time. The delegates are an example. They inform him about the CC proceedings, about the current problems at Foyer

93 or about the possible solutions advanced by the residents. The link between the clerical and lay management of Foyer 93 is evident in such briefings. The delegates stand for the practical aspects of Foyer 93 and its external relationships. The imam approves and therefore sanctions the directions of such proceedings as the main Muslim representative in the foyer. Thus, not only do people respect him simply for his age, but also because he embodies Muslim precepts. In the face of disputes among the residents, when there seems to be no solution, after the roommates or the delegates have intervened to no effect, the imam is the one called upon.

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The residents conceive of themselves as good Muslims and what this implies in practice is what I show here. The five pillars of Islam are al-Islam, al-salat (ritual prayer), al-zhakat

(annual tithe), al-ramadan (fasting) and al-hadji (pilgrimage to Mecca). Often al-Islam, the submission to Allah, which is the first requirement to be a Muslim, is not enumerated amongst the obligations of a Muslim, since it is, as it were, implicit or assumed. To be

Muslim means first of all to understand that Allah is the only God and that Mohammed is his prophet. This is what is synthesized both in the Tawid - the principle of the uniqueness of Allah (Ad-Dahbi, 1995) - and in the ritual formula required to become Muslim, the

going: ʾašhadu ʾan lā ʾilāha ʾilla (A)llāh, wa ʾašhadu ʾanna ,(الشهادة) shahada

Muḥammada(n) rasūlu (A)llāh (romanization of the Arabic text meaning:I believe that there is no other God than Allah and that Mohammed is his prophet). Interethnic separation is fostered between the Muslim communities of West and North African origin by a form of rivalry on who is the best Muslim. At Foyer 93, the residents explain this with social arguments, through which they depict the Arabs as petty criminals and cheaters, as to infer from the latter‟s bad social behaviour their suspect way of being Muslims. Especially during the time of the riots, the residents wanted to dissociate themselves from the images labelled on them by the press and other media, according to which it was “Muslim” extremism, which created commotion and violence in the streets. Mamadou, one young resident at Foyer 93 told me:

“When people think of the Muslims, they think that we are all the same. Arabic is the

language of Paradise, but ninety per cent of the people who go to Paradise are not Arab.”

And Koulibaly, another resident:

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“I tell you what we do as Muslims in the streets: we lay out our prayer carpets on Fridays

and during celebrations, whether it rains or snows. This is when you see us in the streets!”

Islam, for many of the residents, is not a matter of choice. It is something within which they have grown. They have seen their parents, grandparents and friends practice Islam; they have been woken up by the sound of the muezzin every day of their life; they have celebrated the aϊds (see glossary) and shared the meals for the break of the daily fasting during the Ramadan period, seen their mothers cook feast meals after sundown. Islam is first of all their world. When I asked when was it that they understood they were ready to embrace Islam, the residents looked at me awkwardly, as if I had asked when they decided to put on their skin. Amara, from Yelimané, says:

“I never decided to be Muslim. I am Muslim, that‟s it. I‟ve always been and I‟ll always be.

I do my prayers five times a day, every day. I believe in God. I read the Qur‟an. I don‟t

drink or eat pork. I pray to Allah if I need strength, when I‟m down. When I‟m happy, I

thank Him. If I behave I‟ll go to Paradise!”

Amara is one of the residents who works at the market stand in the court, in weekly turns which he alternates with another resident. He would not shake my hand, since I am not a

Muslim and I am a woman. He is a friend of several of the people working at the forge as fellow villagers. In his opinion, they do their job well, without being good Muslims. They would, for instance, shake my hand or ask me out for coffee! In Amar‟s view, Islam is first of all a code of behaviour and a set of rules, which are strongly embedded in society. The iron makers at Foyer 93 exhibit lax manners, drink and smoke. According to the social worker of the COPAF, one of them is also a drug addict. The majority of the people at 171

Foyer 93 share Amara‟s view. A good Muslim embodies the precepts of Islam and the concept of being pure or „proper‟ as they say. Being clean and well dressed, having the hair cut, to pray and respect the people next to you are the signs of being good Muslims. To accuse somebody of not washing properly is a way of saying that he is not a good Muslim.

A bad Muslim is somebody who brings some degree of pollution or disorder, whether symbolic or physical. There is a sense of legitimate and illegitimate behaviour, according to which one knows immediately if a resident follows what is perceived to be the good practice. Spending too much time at the café bar or outside the foyer at night, and not praying during the day can be indications of one‟s bad behaviour. To incur the residents‟ bad opinion of you bears consequences and nobody wishes to be the object of such images.

1Each resident has either his family in the foyer or somebody of his entourage who knows his family back in the village. Every migrant/resident knows that his behaviour reflects on his family‟s reputation too. There is too much at stake for them, not to adhere, if only minimally, to the rules of Foyer 93, which in the end, are the rules of the village. Even though, as stated above, the migrants are repositioning themselves and their own tradition, this transitioning is still being made through the consensus of the majority and the standard of the Soninké traditional society. At Foyer 93, the emphasis on Islam testifies to the need for establishing a wider organizational system able to mobilize and sanction the residents‟ behaviour more strongly than the authority of a delegate can. This is true both internally and externally, since Islam counteracts French secularism by emphasizing the role of

Soninké leaders. By saying that the delegates deal with everything in the foyers, the residents put two concepts forward. Firstly, that the delegates are the main people to whom one has to talk upon entering the building. Secondly, that what goes on behind its walls is

172 for nobody else to interfere with. If the French can talk with the delegates about the managing of Foyer 93, they certainly cannot change the residents‟ internal organization.

Islam is often associated with French minority groups, since it is the religious denomination of most of the West and North African groups in Europe. According to Fall

(2005) though, being Muslim is not the main identification put forward by Algerians. The movement of the Beurs in the 1970s, which involved a great number of Algerian migrants living in the foyers SONACOTRA, staged political and social claims, rather than religious ones. The movement is tragically remembered for the fierce oppression, at the hands of the

French gendarmes, of those who rallied. Hundreds of Algerians were killed in the strike.

The residents of Foyer 93, on the other hand, as much as the Wolof of the Mouride community, perceive themselves socially as Muslims. In other words, Islam provides them with an identity, be they observant Muslims or not. At Foyer 93, the residents are constantly under their roommates‟ gaze. When it is the time for prayer, for example, everyone is expected to carry it out. Thus, only the one who is away at work is excused for not praying. However, if he has missed his prayers, he should catch up with extra duwas, praising prayers, when he can during the day or at night. I have seen residents pray beyond the time of the set prayers, sometimes when their room is not so crowded or when they have to sleep early. According to MS, considering that the turnover of the extra people is strong, cohesion between the existing groups vis-à-vis the “temporary” ones (less than four years!) is not facilitated. Nevertheless, having a bed or not does not prevent the residents from carrying out their prayers. In the evenings, in fact, the scenario is very similar to the one I could observe during weekends: Foyer 93 becomes very crowded and the imam leads the prayer in the court, which can host all the people who wish to pray and could not fit in

173 the small prayer room. This way, at Foyer 93, rather than having a weekday (masjid) and

Friday mosque (jami-masjid), according to the distinction provided above, there is a daily mosque – conventional mosque next to the entrance – and a night prayer space, which is the court.

In my view, migration itself does not intensify the practice of Islam, but rather the community bond, which, for the communities of my study, is made through it. Praying, as much as being together in the common areas of the foyer, offers the chance of taking part in the life of the foyer. The residents do the ablutions, carry out the ritual prayer and mingle together afterwards. The new groups, those who do not have a bed, take advantage of the common areas in which they can stay as long as possible, before they can eventually lay their mattresses for the night. The imam‟s and the elders‟ moral reproach of those who spend a lot of time in the café bar also aims at targeting some new residents (generally younger), and to alienate them. The residents adopt strategies of inclusion and exclusion in order to integrate or marginalise categories of residents whom they perceive as a threat and potentially as bad Muslims. Those who have newly arrived are already alien to the existing community and only the test of time spent at Foyer 93 will prove their true colours.

Of course, it is not only the young or newly-arrived ones who spend their time at the café bar, yet the moral accusation looms above them as a form of control. Young people, middle aged, old and new residents spend their time there. They form a subgroup of people, who enjoy being together and watch television. An old resident, in his fifties, would sit next to the counter every so often, talk about his family, the news and so forth. He would wait for the closure of the café bar to pray and then go into his room. Nevertheless, the young

174 people know that they have to prove themselves. I have heard young people at the café bar talk as the imam would about the importance of the family, of being good Muslims and respectful of the tradition. These people are generally already married in Kayes and plan to go back. Their transnational link, through tradition and Islam, is the way they are still attached to Kayes. They live in Paris and at Foyer 93 through the myth of return, which they construct every day: the majority of the residents stays in France, while only a few go back after a period of twenty years. Praying is one of the fundamental ways of participating in the life of the foyer, as much as spending most of their time with their fellow residents in the communal areas. The fact that a market stand is set up in the court, selling the same items the residents might find in the shops outside, shows the resident‟s need to re-create a familiar environment, in which it is a member of the community who provides it. The market stand only sells kola nuts and wooden sticks (to clean the teeth) as alternative items to the otherwise common ones, which could be easily found at the local market in

Montreuil (e.g. milk, plugs, matches and so forth). Moreover, the informal activities carried out at Foyer 93 are not meant to help those who are illegal in France or the newly-arrived ones, so that they can start their new life in Paris. The one taking on the job must be a member of the community, whom the residents trust and have had the time to know, by either sharing a room or significant amount of time in the foyer. Alternatively, the resident in question, such as Makalou (see above), has to be somebody known from back in the village, who has also proved himself in Paris and eventually at Foyer 93. The community jobs, as it were, already represent an achievement and are testament to the holder‟s seniority; by no means are they offered to the new groups. When the latter are smart enough, they will respect the rules, possibly get to know the delegates and carry out their prayers. Alternatively, they will gradually move out of Foyer 93. The residents know that it

175 is safer for them to keep „their head down‟ and become „invisible‟. There is a category of young people who have chosen Foyer 93 as their daytime dwelling, but sleep somewhere else. Sambaké is one of these. He is twenty-five, from the urban village of Konsinga. He has a job as a cleaner in a restaurant in Paris. He sleeps elsewhere at night, but admits living at Foyer 93. This entails that he returns to Foyer 93 after work, where he takes his shower and where he keeps his belongings. He also participates in the village savings of his town Konsinga. Sambaké enjoys the court with the others, mostly next to the hairdressers, who also are young and the only ones who can do their job in the foyer regardless of their status within the foyer. He speaks little French and he is the one who put me in contact with the marabout, living on the third floor at Foyer 93. He is very open about it and he thought that I was at Foyer 93 for the maraboutage, to receive the marabout‟s divination.

When Amara came to know that I visited the marabout, he became very disconcerted and looked disapponted. He said:

“That is not Islam, those are silly things. Real Muslims only pray to Allah. You shouldn‟t

believe in the marabouts”.

Amara gave me a version of the Qur‟an written in French, thinking that my interest in

Islam might eventually lead me to convert and go to Paradise. He conceives of himself as a good Muslim and I was directed to him to gather information about Islam in the foyer.

Amara is also a senior resident at Foyer 93. It appears that the two elements go together.

Islam is the discourse by which the senior residents express their distrust of the new members, by arguing that their religious practice is doubtful. The latter are thus depicted as hybrid Muslims, or not real Muslims, which also equates to saying that they are not real residents. Sambaké sees no contradiction between attending the marabout to ask for advice 176 and carrying out his daily prayers. The marabout is for him a man of God, who has spiritual skills enabling him to “see”. In Africa, as Olivier de Sardan (1988) pointed out, the jinn are a common reality, as much as seeing a traffic light at a crossroad, so that it would not be surprising for the mystical world to dominate everyday life, but the opposite

(p. 533). Anyone might see them, without being aware they are spirits, since the latter live a parallel life to that of the human beings. The jinn, in fact, may take on human or animal features. Only people gifted for their spirituality can recognize and be in contact with them.

The marabout and the imam have no contact. The imam is the main authority at Foyer 93, yet different residents also endorse the marabout‟s authority for his divinatory skills. While they do not constitute a contradiction as to what they represent, there is controversy among followers. Those who think that they follow the institutional and prescriptive practice of

Islam have a chip on their shoulders about those who attend the marabout. Amara would tell me:

“Don‟t listen to them [those who see the marabout], they are credulous people. If you are

Muslim, you don‟t need to know your future, which is but Allah‟s design. Just be a good

Muslim and accept your own destiny. That‟s all!”

Djibril admits that the marabout may have his own expertise, but he dismisses it as not being Islam, since by sanctioning it, he would disqualify his own position as leader of the community. The residents validate as Islamic anything that falls into the institutional aspects of it, that is, its representatives – consensually designated by the community, such as the imam – and the fulfilment of the five pillars of Islam. Nevertheless, people like

Sambaka, look for the marabout‟s advice on their daily concerns, in order to answer their 177 quest for solutions and reassurance. The marabout is for him still a “Muslim representative”. The predicament lies here. Back in the village, the marabout holds his prominent position as spiritual leader and one erudite in the Islamic Sciences, that is, in the

Qur‟an and the Sunna, through his command of Arabic. As stated above though, upon migration their role is reversed and this is so because the need for organization in the community is greater than its spiritual appeal. The marabout brings with himself the memory of what a marabout is back in the village, but the residents know that “good marabouts” are hard to find in Europe. Overall, those that one can find in France are considered charlatans. The “real marabouts” would not have migrated at all, because their position within the community back in the village would have afforded them enough reputation and wealth to remain in their hometowns and villages. In a sense, West African migrants (this applies to the Mouride community too) think that the threshold between spirituality and the leadership of the community of faith is one of mobility. The leaders of the Muslim community in Europe are not necessarily spiritual leaders. The same goes for the so-called marabouts and healers, who may have acquired a little knowledge before leaving their country, enabling them respectively to perform divination rituals and use medicinal herbs. For all of these Muslim and traditional figures the test of their status would be back in their home country. Could an imam of the foyer be equally the imam of a mosque in his village in Kayes? Could the marabout be recognised as spiritual leader back home? The answer is only affirmative for the former. In the next section, I will focus on the figure of the marabout at Foyer 93 and on his controversial role within his community, following two lines of investigation: the first being historical and the second anthropological.

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IV. Islam in Mali and at Foyer 93.

Cheick Ahmed Hamahullah b. Mohammed al Tishiti (henceforth CH), known as Hamallah

(1883?-1943), was the founder of the eponymous Sufi brotherhood, born out of the

Tijanyya brotherhood. The Hammallyya, a schismatic branch of the principal Tijanyya order in Mali, split because of a controversy about the prayer Jawharat al Kamal, The

Jewel of Perfection, as the Tijan founder formulated it. The controversy of the “eleven grains” was launched by the Algerian Cheick Lakhdar of the Tijanyya brotherhood after being promoted muqqaddam, head of the Sufi brotherhood, by Sidi al-Tahir Bu Tiba in

Tlimsan, Western Algeria. Bu Tiba opposed the Omarian Tijan branches, aligned to the

French, on the basis of their recitation of the Tijan formula Jawaharatu-l-Kamali, twelve times in the wazifa, praising prayer, rather than eleven, as posited in the main Tijan book,

Jawahir al-Ma’ani. Bu Tiba claimed to be the only legitimate heir to Amed al-Tijan and to follow his original message. In the Maghreb the adepts of both the “eleven and twelve grains” coexisted, while in West Africa this dispute was newly introduced by Cheick

Lakhdar. The legend described him travelling in search of the pole, spiritual leader, of the new Tijan branch, whom he recognised in Hamallah (Traoré, 1983, p. 49-50). Cheick

Lakhdar‟s exile to S. Louis was followed by Hammallah‟s first exile to Mederdra via S.

Louis (1925) because of, among other reasons, the ethnic rivalries of the segmented society in Nioro - cercle of Kayes in Mali (Robinson et al., 1997).

As Robinson and Triaud point out (1997), the contention was not a merely religious one, but incorporated the tribal oppositions of the Bidan people – ethnic groups in the Hodh and

Sahel area. According to Ryan (2000), the “eleven grains” had appealed to the non-Fulbe ethnic groups, whereas among the Fulbe Torodbe religious caste, the Tijanyya catered for

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ethnic elitism and separatism. Brenner (1984) reaffirms this point underlying, in fact, that

CH gathered adepts among the Wolof, the Marka merchants and especially the Moors.

Moreover, such contrapositions were reinforced by the French occupation, with which the

Tijan had aligned, while the Hammalists, on the other hand, fiercely opposed the colonial

rule. In 1924 the eye of suspicion turned towards CH. In 1925 he was interned and exiled

to Mederda, Mauritania; in 1930 he was deported to the Ivory Coast. He could only return

in 1936 to Nioro to be exiled again in 1940 first to Algeria and then be deported in 1941 to

France, where he would die.

In 1947, the French colonial Captain Rocaboy wrote: “since 1912 Hamallah affirms

himself as a first rank character in the Sahel-Mauritanian area, dedicated to ascetism and

mysticism … His reputation spreads from Nioro to Mauritania and Sudan up to Dakar and

the Fouta Djalon. He is a saint known for being unoffending” (in Traoré, ibid: 66, my

translation). Still according to Traoré, CH was a venerated Sufi, who dedicated his entire

life to the spiritual path of his order. He had his zawiya, Sufi lodge, from where he led the

prayer, taught the history of the Sufi masters and of the Tijanyya, discussed the matter of

the “eleven grains”, of the two rakas15, great imams‟ thought and so forth. Traoré recounts

CH‟s gift enabling him to foretell future events. Oral tradition accounts that in 1937 CH

already foresaw his internment, which in fact followed in 1941, when the Governor-

General of the A.O.F. went to Nioro attempting to reconcile the Hammallists with the

Omarians. People believed in CH‟s holiness, which testified to his waliness. He lived a

withdrawn life, underwent trials as a way of testing his faith and was a charitable and pious

15 The prayer composed of two rather than four rakas (prostrations) underlined the urgency of praying quickly because of danger and persecution. During the French colonial occupation, the so called “short prayer” symbolised the Muslim revolt against the persecuting French.

180 man. As a Sufi, he embodied not only Islam, submission to Allah and his law, the Shari‟a, but Ihsan, the practice of good behaviour. In 1940, that is, one year before being deported to France, he affirmed: “I give everything up, since my only aim is Allah and his Prophet”.

This spiritual dimension is essential to understand both the role of Islam in Africa and the understandable threat the French perceived in it and its agents (pp. 68-69).

CH was again exiled to Mostaganem, in the Cassaigne region at the border with Algeria; to the forest of Adzopé, Southern Ivory Coast, before reaching Evaux-les-Bains, Creuse,

France. “A document of the National Security reveals that CH could never adapt to the climate nor to the living conditions of France; in spite of the request for transfer to Corsica, the Vichy authorities ignored it” (www.islaminfo-ci.org). Once too sick, he was transferred from the Hospital of Aubenas to that of Montluçon. On the cold winter day of Januray 16th

1943, the marabout, who at the age of twenty had already mobilized millions of people and attracted the faithful from the Sahel to the French Sudan and Ivory Coast, died with a diagnosis of cardiopathy at the age of sixty-one years of age. CH‟s tomb, the n. 5773 of the

Montluçon cemetery, still attracts pilgrims (ibid). As Traoré has pointed out, the French authority had no clear objective for Islam in Africa other than to staunch any spiritual expression, imprison its agents and threaten its ordinary believers. Opposition to French colonization was not in the hands of warriors, but in those of spiritual figures who upheld peace and freedom under the banner of Islam and the authority of Allah and his Prophet

Mohammed (Only God is king). When I enquired about the figure of CH at Foyer 93, a few respondents admitted that affiliates also exist in the region of Kayes, but certainly not after migration. However, it has developed into a marginal phenomenon in Mali. In the circle of Kayes, the marabout has lost his role as spiritual guide, becoming instead the

181 dispenser of the Qur‟anic teaching. This role has been taken over by the imam at Foyer 93, who has in this way come to the forefront as the Soninkés‟ Muslim representative in the

Diaspora. In the Soninké society, the marabouts belonged to the lowest rank of the freemen, the hooro. The rulers‟ entourage was made up of princes, advisors, warriors and then by the modinu, the marabouts. As in the study of baraka carried out by Jamous in the

Rif region (1981), the marabouts lived in their own compound. They were set apart from the rivalries of the segmented society, ravaged by the fights of the different groups for power over the land. The marbout marked the moment of ceasefire, in which the fighting groups settled their blood debts of vengeance, before internal wars were triggered again by more killings and raids.

The marabout I could meet during the time of my fieldwork at Foyer 93 receives people from the most disparate backgrounds, apart from the residents themselves. The marabout practises divination rituals with the use of his prayer beads. He is from Diafouné and he is in his late forties. Upon meeting his postulants, the marabout asks what their question is.

He declares having his own method, which he describes as a path. The marabout told me:

“I can find the answers by following my own path. It‟s like a route, which is not for

everybody to know. I have my way and this prayer bead you see. I don‟t need anything

else.”

The marabouts who can be found in Paris are those who carry out divination. The marabout at Foyer 93 receives French and African clients, irrespective of their ethnic or religious affiliation. He is reputed for being able to understand the person‟s situation and to find the proper solution. His clients are expected to carry out the sadaqa, giving and sacrifice (cf. 182

Werbner, 2003, p. 113) and, when they are Muslim, they are also required to pray the al- fatiah (first Sura of the Qur‟an) and extra duha, praising prayers to God. One day, a woman in her forties, Ivorian, was in front of the imam‟s room, carrying two pints of milk.

The door was sealed off with cellotape, because the room had been sprayed with anti- cockroach poison. I had a meeting with the imam myself, so there we were, one in front of each other. I asked whether she also needed to see the imam. She said that she would have preferred to make her sadaqa to the imam, but she might as well make it to anyone else.

The first resident who approached us was given the two pints of milk. I then escorted the lady to her car, asking what she had found with the marabout‟s help; in short, why she visited him. She responded:

“That marabout is very good. He can see many things. He has helped me a lot; he has

given me advice on many things. But you, young lady [referring to me], be careful! Don‟t

hang about too much in here [Foyer 93], or you‟ll end up married to one of them before

you know!”

Kuczynski (2002; 2004) has extensively studied French religious pluralism and especially the African marabouts in Paris. In particular, her case study of a French woman attending

African marabouts to get her lover back (Kuczynski, 1988) gives me a good comparative element with regards to the residents and African clients visiting the marabout.

Kuczynnski‟s case study shows the expectation of a woman who thinks that the marabout can “magically” change her destiny, which she cannot accept. By giving money to the marabout, “analogous, for her, to paying a psychoanalyst”, she expects results and if these do not happen, then the marabout “has done nothing” (p.223). The paper also reflects on the “otherness” which the French perceive in the “soft therapies” such as seeing a 183 marabout, allowing them to both dissociate from their problem and procrastinate the solution. The French clientele frames the marabouts‟s exoticism as “magic”.

The amulets that the marabouts often produce for their clients are a tangible entity which the clients understand as 1) having its own agency and 2) bringing the solution to all problems, where the effort required of the client is minimal compared with that of the skilled marabout. In the African milieus, attending the marabout is an action embedded in the community. The marabout in question is normally somebody of one‟s milieu and often one‟s own ethnic group. Within the Mouride community for example, the practising marabout was a Mouride himself. Their conception of the marabout is that of a savant, who, for his experience and spirituality has acquired the skills enabling him to see the jinn.

The marabout is a pure man, who can only do “good things” for the people, but certainly not change the course of their life. This would imply “black magic” (by this, the residents mean the power to harm somebody or make him/her do something against his/her will).

Hence, their definition of charlatans: they are either people who claim to be able to solve all problems or that have no knowledge to support their practices, which they nevertheless fake for the “Europeans”, since the latter do not know what to expect and are thought to believe everything. Moreover, black magic or witchcraft, is practised by sorcerers. This phenomenon can probably be summed up by the work of Evans-Pritchard (1937), in that it implies vengeance and the intention to harm or obstruct somebody. Both among the

Soninkés and the Mourides, the practicing marabouts are Muslim practitioners who help the community in their daily concerns. In this sense they only “do good” and help their followers by providing advice. When Sambaké attends the marabout it is to ask advice and guidance in moments of distress and crisis. He told me that before leaving Foyer 93 he

184 asked the marabout if that was a good choice, or if he “saw” instead obstacles in his path.

To thank the marabout Sambaké pays him money and carries out the sadaqa the marabout asks for. Even though among the residents the money exchange is neither a way of obtaining the marabout‟s help nor of guaranteeing his infallibility, as it would be among the French audience, the problem is still for them to ascertain his skills. The residents are much more disenchanted about this than other people visiting the marabouts, who do not belong to the community. The former admit that trustworthy marabouts would have not migrated and that those who have left their country young might not have learnt enough and acquired the secret from the forefathers. The marabouts‟ personal history makes for their credibility and therefore their reputation within the community.

Generally, renowned marabouts are old enough to have practised divination rituals for a long time and/or combined this with the characteristic apprenticeship they may have inherited from the family, or through journeys in West Africa, which they carry out to satisfy their spiritual quest. The practising marabouts inhabit the realm of the jinn, mediating between this world and the beyond, in a fusion of the worlds akin to that described by Stoller (1989), where the metaphysical reality that the marabouts summon is the pantheon of spirits, doubles of the people to whom they manifest. For the residents, the relationship with the invisible world is one of dialogue and not of possession. The “tricks” that the jinn may play on people - because the latter deceived them, walked on their territory or stepped inadvertently on them, may be cause of diseases and even mental illness, which are construed as an attack. When the residents seek the marabout‟s help, this entails guidance and advice, in exchange for money.

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Chapter 5

The Mouride Brotherhood in the Île-de-France region.

I. The Mourides.

Senegalese migration is now facing a new phase, in which students and intellectuals from

Dakar appear to migrate in great numbers. Nevertheless, the trend from the rural interior continues to be evant one, including from the region of Touba, the stronghold of the

Mouride brotherhood, founded in Senegal by Cheick Amadou Bamba Mbacké (1852-

1927). Touba is also an organizational centre for migration, first to Dakar and then to

Europe (Diouf, 2000). CAB was born in the Mbacké Baol village, which had been founded by his great-grandfather Maharram. CAB‟s father, Momar Antasali, was a leading Muslim authority and jurist of his time, while “his mother, Diarra Bousso, came from a prestigious clerical lineage” (cf. Robinson, 2000a, p. 210). CAB‟s father joined, as consultant, the resistant king, the damel Lat Dior (1842-1886), with the intention of creating a new Islamic regime against both the old aristocracy and the emerging colonial power. CAB grew in this atmosphere, attending the best Islamic specialists, including that of the damel‟s qadi and secretary. Literature on the Wolof ethnic group, the most consistent provider of talibés

(faithful)to the Mouride brotherhood (tariqa in Arabic) is extensive. Paul Marty‟s (1917) and Coppolani‟s studies (1897) marked the beginning of the French colonial works on

Islam in Africa, but they are now criticised as proposing rather biased, ethnocentric and superficial understandings of Islam.

Glover (2007) criticises and counters the common Western academic understanding of

Islam in Africa, namely, as being the “local or African aberration of a higher religious and mystical tradition” (p. 3). He sees it as “an integral part of a transcontinental progression of

186 religious and mystical ideas and practices that have been developing for centuries, and that have contributed to the construction of modernity for the Mourides and the modernization of Senegambia” (ibid). Glover starts his argument by affirming that even though at the time of the French colonial conquest the transatlantic slave trade had terminated, its echoes reverberated in the interior of West Africa, where the aristocracy and the jihadist Muslim leaders alike fought for their vision of the world. CAB, the founder of the Mouride order, opposed both structures of power. Glover cites the seminal works of Searing (2002) and

Robinson (2000a) which outline the internal ongoing conflict between, respectively the social and economic strands in the Senegambian region and the ongoing opposition between secular and Muslim forces in West Africa. As Glover puts it, the history of

Mouridism is a history of „intersections‟ and its modernity rests in its appropriation of global and local historical forces alike.

Colonization intersected in West Africa with pre-existing historical forces and social upheavals, which it exploited ideologically on three levels in order to justify its mission civilisatrice. As Glover shows, „orientalist‟ studies depicted the Sufi orders in West Africa as either retrograde and populist or as a response to the colonial presence. Glover shows how Sufism was depicted by eminent scholars such as Trimingham (1959; 1998) as following a kind of „life cycle‟, whose golden age was that of the first Sufis aspiring to a purer ascetic life, away from the materialism of the Ummayyad and Abbasid ulemas

(around the eighth century C.E.). This phase was followed by the widespread phenomenon of the Sufi orders, which coincided with the veneration of the Saints. Scholars like Arberry condemned the latter‟s and their followers‟ scandalous conduct. Finally, the third orientalist assumption would depict Sufism as antithetical to Islam and therefore

187 extraneous (Glover, op. cit., pp. 5-15). More specifically with regards to the Mourides, postcolonial authors such as Cruise O„Brien (1971) have viewed the colonial enterprise as deranging the social stability of West Africa and as replacing it with its new order (social and economic – such as the peanut cash crop). The “populist underpinning”(Cruise

O‟Brien et al., 1988) of CAB‟s following, his increasing popularity at the time of social crisis, facilitated the emergence of an alternative leadership, creating the persona of CAB with the embodied religious-charismatic qualities of a Sufi leader. This is why people discredited by the old regime (ex-slaves and the warriors, the ceddo) adhered to the

Mouridyya.

As Glover points out, Muslims are made to appear devoid of any will and social background. He goes on to describe how the orientalist ideology availed itself of the

Islamic dissent of the Salafis and the Wahabis towards the Sufi orders. The former, inspired by the idea of modernizing the Muslim world by catching up with the technologies of West, saw the Sufis as an obstacle to the material advances they advocated. The latter intended to go back to the purest message of Islam, which, in their view, the Sufi had corrupted. The Sufi veneration of the Saints was regarded by the Wahabis as a form of idolatry. As Traoré (1983) has pointed out, the French authority had no clear objective about Islam in Africa other than to staunch any spiritual expression, imprison its agents and threaten its ordinary believers. Initially, the European attitude towards the marabouts was one of mistrust. It was only after the creation of the Muslim Affairs Office and the experience of “pacification” in Mauritania that the French acknowledged the importance of the Muslim “leadership” (Robinson, 2000a, pp. 89-91). Moreover, the growing unpopularity of the aristocrats of the old regime had its counterpart in the increasing

188 recruitment on the part of the brotherhoods, in particular that of the Mouridyya. French suspicion gave way to the understanding that the brotherhoods and their following, under the marabouts‟ leadership were, in fact, more controllable and containablethen an organised political movement of resistance such as that of damel Lat Dior (defeated by the

French in 1886) (idem, p. 212). “The geographical expansion that produced the Federation of French West Africa followed three directions: north, south and east (…). The southern extension was designated to consolidate control in the peanut basin”, that is the areas in which CAB recruited amongst “the royals, crown soldiers and peasants” (Robinson, ibid, p. 85). The colonial administration availed itself of the cooperation of Mauritanian

Muslims often members of the Qadryya Sufi order, believing in the superiority of the

“Bidan people over the blacks” (idem, p. 87).

Gilsenan (1973)opens up an understanding of the Sufi orders in Egypt as a dynamic flourishing occurrence internal to Islam, namely, as a response to the needs of the masses and the historical changes of the society against the ossification of the intellectual elite, the ulema. He views Sufism as the popular counterpart to intellectual and orthodox Islam, constituting a mystic religion of the senses and intoxication, miracles and rituals. Sufism, he posits, provides a great source of appeal for the weakest strata of the population, which became empowered and represented by figures such as those of the Saints. The latter embody their pains and aspirations, promising achievement through and consolation in God.

Thus, earthly concerns are spiritualised and transformed. The saints, by espousing action in the world and spiritual closeness to God, oppose the rigid and elitist formulations of the doctors of religion. The success and structural function of the saints reside in their power to convert: they historically attract to Islam those layers of society that the scholarly,

189 formalized messages of the ulema did not penetrate. In most cases, the saints themselves had a humble background, which they escaped through religious status (p. 41), whereby the orders were „heaven for those who did not seek or find a place in the new secularised order‟

(p. 143).

Nevertheless, as Abu-Nasr pointed out (2007), Sufism had not simply situated itself in the opposition between high and low Islam, or popular and doctrinal spheres. In fact, around the twelfth century it produced theologians like Al-Ghazzali (d. 1111) and Rumi (d. 1273), whose doctrinal work and renown were to circulate in the Islamic world and give substance to the Sufi tenets. They theorized on the mystical knowledge (of the Sufis), marifa, to demonstrate its compatibility with both Islam and the Sunna. They did so, says Abu-Nasr, in order to contrast with both the secular power of the Caliphs (who claimed to be the heirs of Mohamed‟s companions in the leadership of the Muslim community) and the scholars of religious law (put in office by and serving the Caliphate). The religious scholars tried to undermine the Sufi orders by accusing them of contravening Islamic orthodoxy. Sufism is a globalizing phenomenon, which entailed doctrinal and leadership controversies within the ummah that have not declined over time. In Paris, the Mourides face now, as much as then, the Wahabis‟ dissent, internal rivalries on the leadership of the Mouride community and the

French general suspicion of Islam.

Characteristic of the Mouride brotherhood is the relationship marabout-talibé, that is, master-faithful. Cruise O‟Brien et al. (1988) have insisted on the charismatic role of the

Mouride marabout towards his following: the marabout‟s charisma is based on his closeness to Allah, achieved through self-purification, which grants him his baraka, divine

190 gift, as a saintly man, wali. Copans‟ deeply Marxist reflection on Mouridism has portrayed such relationship as one of dependence and exploitation, in a classic logic of historical materialism. Copans (1980) shows how the Mouride brotherhood provided a transitory structure from pre-capitalistic Senegal to the capitalistic new order. The passage took place in three phases: first with the dissolution of the political Wolof system; secondly with the

“French political-military conquest” and thirdly through the development of the peanut cash crop (p. 77). The beginning of the foundation of the Mouridyya coincided, in fact, with the „colonization‟ of new lands, through a “migratory atmosphere” which encompassed the old Wolof regions (the Cayor and Baol) towards the “New Lands” (the

Jolof region) (p. 79). This took place as an autonomous movement, inherent in the foundation of the new Mouride villages (the daara). CAB and his entourage dug wells and allowed the new community to settle and then harvest predominantly peanuts and millet.

This process took place at the expenses of the Peul nomadic group, whose herds needed foraging lands. Beyond the damning vision of the Mouride community as cooperating with the French administrators, Copans makes clear that these two actors were simply in agreement and that the capitalistic market could have not been imported without a transient system, such as that provided by the Mouridyya. In Robinson‟s words: “to put it in

Gramscian terms, the French sought to create a hegemony to parallel their domination”

(2000a, p. 77). Not dissimilarly, Copans discusses the “creation of formal submission” (op. cit, p. 226), which the Mouridyya provided. Robinson and Coulon (1981) are unanimous in reporting that CAB, even though in close contact with the courts and the Muslim reformers of his time, kept separate from them and worried only about the foundation of his own tariqa. Robinson describes the French consolidation and policy towards the Mourides as

191 marked by a first phase of suspicion, during which CAB was exiled three times (1895-

1912), and a second of accommodation and control (1912-1927).

i. From the village daara to the urban daira: the social organization of the Mourides.

Following Copans‟ definition (1980, p.87), the daara were communities of single men, called takder, who worked the fields under the direction of the marabout or of his representative, the diawrigne. The daara are not to be confused with the Qur‟anic schools, which were under the direction of a master, who was paid by the talibés’ families or by the former‟s begging for money. The daara represented the pioneering settling of the Mouride community first in the rural areas of the Baol and Cayor and then in the eastern areas of the

Jolof in Senegal. They were therefore synonymous with Mouride villages. While CAB was the initiator of the Mouride tariqa as the spiritual leader, his loyal talibé Cheick Ibra Fall, later CAB‟s successor, looked after the practical organization of the Mouride community.

It appears that Ibra Fall was the „inventor‟ of the daara, in particular of “the ideas of work and activity”, which translated into the agricultural work carried out by the talibés for their marabout. “The foundation of the daara did not seem to be in contradiction with the settling of entire villages”, since “proselytising always needs material means” (ibid). The dahira correspond to the second phase of the Mouride history, which sees the community migrate to the urban centres. Bava (2004, p.135) locates this moment in the years around

1945, when the talibés felt the need to create urban networks, affiliating the talibés of one and the same marabout or simply those wishing to pray together in the same neighbourhood.

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According to Copans (1980, p. 190), the dahira represent the constraints of the urban settings more than a voluntary Mouride organization. In the beginning, they were organised according to age and gender groups. At present, the dahira present a lay and bureaucratic organization, with titles and roles reflecting social ones, such as that of the president, the assistant, the secretary and so on. Nowadays, the dahira have an associative layout, where all the members have the same voice. Copans asserts the democratic character of the dahira, where on the one hand the stringent relationship marabout-talibé is bypassed, yet on the other the dahira are not the place for the talibés‟ independence, they are rather

“schools of submission” in the wider frame of the hierarchical structure of the tariqa (p.

191). The president of the Mouride dahira in Paris told me:

“We are all on the same level of importance here. Because I‟m in charge of the

organization it doesn‟t mean I‟m a better Mouride or Muslim. We are all talibés. The

organization is horizontal.”

The Mourides of the dahira in which I carried out part of my fieldwork explained their organization in Sufi terms, that is, according to the principle of batin and zahir. In Arabic, al-batin, the Hidden, and az-zahir, the Manifest, are two of the ninety-nine names of Allah; the one who repeats the first, three times a day, will be able to see the truth in things, while reciting the second fifteen times after the Friday prayer, will allow him to have divine light, nur, enter his heart (Friedlander et al., 1978). Batin is the mystical source of Islam, which Allah gives to His elected ones, the saints. From my interviews, it emerges clearly how batin is conceived to be a source of baraka, which enables the wali, like CAB, to

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miraculously change societal systems16. Zhair is explained as the exoteric side of truth,

regulated by the shari’a, the formal law, presiding over every human act on earth; batin is

instead the esoteric principle regulated by haqiqa, the divine truth or substantial law, which

is reflected in the Qur‟an, the Sunna and the Hadith. In the talibés‟ eyes, CAB, by giving a

structure to his brotherhood, repeated the foundational steps of the Prophet‟s companions

in their construction of the Islamic state. This way, they see CAB as the reviver of Islam,

as the one who had no other master than the Prophet himself. Being the Khadim Rassoul

(server of the Prophet), he summed up both principles of batin and zahir as a perfect wali,

who enabled the tariqa to survive up to the present.

In anthropological terms, Bava (2004, p.136) gives an account of the birth in Dakar of two

typologies of dahira: the traditional ones and those created by university students. The

latter started sprouting in the universities and urban neighbourhoods in 1980. The

phenomenon was part of the larger one, which had preceded it and which resulted in the

creation of the Union Culturelle Musulmane (Cultural Muslim Union) by Arabophone

educated students in Senegal in 1953. The intellectual Mouride dahira, as it were, initiated

a trend of reinterpretation of the CAB‟s opus, one that gave value to the founder‟s

teaching, beyond the populist and simplistic knowledge of it, which was limited to the

passionate repetition of the CAB‟s miracles. The phenomenon reaches Europe in the early

1970s, when the first Mouride students migrate from Dakar to become active members in

16One talibé of the dahira explained to me what follows: “At the beginning there wasn‟t anything else other than the batinniers [those practicing batin, the Sufis]. It was a secret movement which conscripted people secretly, because the Muslim kings persecuted them, thinking they were a deviation from Islam. The batinniers knew each other through signs or passwords; it had to be undercover. They interpreted the most mystical side of Islam as the Sufis of each century always bringing a revolutionary message for those who are in power. CAB wanted to proclaim his faith and practise freely, giving dignity to all of his adherents who didn‟t have to hide.”

194 the universities of France and particularly of Paris (p. 139). These students set up „cultural weeks‟, which echoed those taking place at the Cheick Anta Diop University in Dakar at the same time, a time when the Muslim world generally reflected, or reacted to, the Islamic revival of the Iranian revolution (ibid). The importance of the education of the Mourides and of the paysans (the talibés from the villages, the Mouride stronghold), now felt like a priority. It was part of a wider reform, encompassing the ummah (the Islamic community) the world over. The Mourides incorporated it in a process that had not ceased and had instead animated the debates on Islam in France up to the present. Cruise O‟Brien (2003) reminds us that the 1970s were also the times in which the drought was at its height throughout the Sahel regions and Abdou Lahatte Mbacké, third Khalif of the brotherhood

(1968-1989), “reminded the government publicly of its need to come to terms” with the

Mouride brotherhood, for which he was the spokesman and leader (p. 36).

Within the Mouride brotherhood the problem of leadership, as also within the Muslim community worldwide, is central. So far, within the former, the power has been passed on through CAB‟s direct heirs, that is, within the Mbacké lineage of CAB‟s sons. During the time of my fieldwork, the Khalif Serin Saliou was the last of CAB‟s sons of the Mbacké family, with his younger brother Serin Mourtada Mbacké, the touring marabout, strengthening the links of the community abroad. The latter‟s pastoral visits were occasions for the Mourides to draw on his baraka, the divine gift supposed to be a prerequisite of the Mbacké family. Nevertheless, CAB‟s saintly descent has come to an end, with the death of both the Khalif (1915-2007) and Serin MourtadaMbacké (1925–2004).

Bava (op. cit) reads the movement of the Mouride students, the Hisbut Tarqiyyah, as the movement of those excluded from power, that is, of those claiming legitimacy by being

195 the beholders of the founder‟s message and knowledge, rather then simply being part of the silsila-baraka, the founder‟s lineage within which the baraka, and thus the leadership of the tariqa, is passed on.

While Cruise O‟Brien (1988) interpreted the Mouride businessmen as the new urban élite,

Ebin has outlined (1992) how the social organization of the Mourides is essential to understand the ways in which they migrate and how they are so successful in business.

According to Ebin‟s analysis, the experience of the daara, where the young people have been trained to work for the marabout away from the family, to rely on each other and to live as a community of people in everyday life, forges a way of life that the Mourides continue to follow also as migrants abroad. In fact, at the beginning of their migration experience, the talibés tend to live together and pool their resources in common to raise money to set up small forms of commerce in the towns they migrate to. More importantly, they replicate the hierarchical relationship they have with their marabout, with the boss

(often Mouride himself) who had recruited them back in Dakar and sponsored their journey to Europe (idem, p. 97). They maintain import-export businesses between the sites of their migration and Dakar, until they acquire enough financial viability to start their own activity, both abroad and in Senegal. This way, “next to the traditional heritage of the order, the intellectual and economic agents of the brotherhood feature as the new logic of the Mouride expansion” (Bava, 2004, p. 142, my italics).

Indeed, the Mourides affiliated to the Hizbut Tarqiyyah (henceforth HT), which in Arabic means ascension (tarqiyyah) and leadership (hizbut), explain the origin of the movement as one which grew in the spirit of the new spiritual wave, headed in Senegal by the above

196 mentioned Khalif, in order to sustain their spiritual quest with CAB‟s wisdom and teaching. Thus, the movement founds HT in Dakar in 1975 and the first dahira of Mouride intellectuals as a section of Cheick Anta Diop University. In 1981, the movement detaches itself from the university, having attracted people from different milieus and needing to expand as an autonomous organ. In 1981, HT works at a national level and changes its site.

The operational centre, in fact, had to respond to the challenges of the new task, requiring more complex networking and budgetary capacities.

By reading the Mouride website link www.htcom.sn, it appears that in the years 1989-1992

HT had already created different nucleuses in Senegal, Africa, Europe and the United

States, following the idea of “extended dahira”, a network of dahiras following HT‟s inspiring lines. They did so by availing themselves of information systems (internet and radio stations) and of an administrative system able to record files about any member of the dahira. In 1992, the new Khalif Serin Saliou formalizes the organization under the current name of HT, opening in the holy town of Touba the Direction Générale (Headquarters) of

HT. Here a Secretariat with different divisions (administrative, economic, technical and cultural ones) is established, together with the HT cultural centre.

The sign that the brotherhood has been entering a new phase is marked by the fact that HT networks are supported by the Khalif Serin Saliou himself, through the Moral

Representative of HT in Touba, who is in charge of mediating between the movement and the Khalif. This entails the formal endorsement by the Mouride hierarchy, its financial assistance and the fact that future Mouride leaders may come out of HT cadres. HT has established a widespread network throughout the world, including France and Paris itself.

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In the following section, I will present the Mouride centre in the Île-de-France region as

an example of such a trend within the Mouride turuq, and of how these dahiras stage the

Cliffordian travelling cultures (1992), in that they are able to both settle in a foreign

country and practice their faith, through dynamism and organization.

II. The Hisbut Tarqiyyah in the Île-de-France region.

In the Île-de-France region, there are two Mouride Islamic centres, also called maisons

(house in French) or Kerr Serin Touba in Wolof, meaning the house (kerr) of the master

(serin) of Touba, that is, CAB. The first in which I carried out part of my fieldwork was

founded in 2002 at Taverny, under the auspices of the then Khalif Serin Saliou, as part of

the HT network mentioned above; the second is at Aulnay. Under the French 1901 law, any

social group has to formalize itself as an association and abide in its functioning by legal

rules, which were issued in order to create a consultation ground between the associations

and the state. Aulnay abides by such law, whereas the Islamic centre of Taverny follows the

1905 French law, marking the separation of the church from the state and therefore the

French principle of laϊcité, secularism. This implies the free exercise of religion and that the

state is not involved in the provision of stipends to clerics or subsidies necessary to the

running of religious institutions (associations cultuelles in French). In 2005, the centenary

of the law was marked by the controversies over its abolition raised by the European Union,

which has no such a law and which sees it as “a French oddity”17. Islam was brought

forward as an argument in the debate, since the Church deems the law to be the result of the

1905 particular historical moment in France, when Islam was not present, which is false.

However, the law is still in place. Thus, the Mouride Islamic centre of Taverny falls under

17http://www.iheu.org/node/1970. Defending the 1905 French Law of Separation of Religion and State, by The World Union of Humanist Organisers. 198 the 1905 law as a religious institution, with the Conseil Islamique de France (Muslim

French Council) financing it and having the right to its use. The president of the Mouride

Maison (henceforth MM) explained to me that the Khalif agreed to buy the space for a

Mouride Islamic centre, after a delegation of Mourides of France petitioned for it. The formal signature and purchase of MM was carried out in the presence of the president of

MM, of a delegation of HT from Senegal and of the mayor of Taverny, who, after the president‟s words, was eager to open a process of dialogue and peaceful relationship with the Muslim representatives.

The inspirational lines of MM, that is, its educational aim, distinguishes it from the MM at

Aulnay. In fact, the former attracts young researchers who have the responsibility of increasing the intellectual capital of the centre, and children, who attend MM during vacations to learn the Qur‟an and mostly CAB‟s qasidas (the founder‟s poems, odes and chants). On the contrary, the latter exhibits a very traditional if not classic outlook, where the faithful gather to pray, sing the dhikr together, collect the money to organise events or for the running of MM, and overall to celebrate Mouride and Muslim events alike, such as the mouloud and the aϊds. This does not imply that MM is devoid of Sufi practices, which are indeed part and parcel of its activities, yet it adds to its religious praxis an ongoing research effort in the study of Islam, CAB‟s life and writing and also of Islam in the face of the French colonial conquest. In this sense, and this is what I intend to show here, MM brings about a very serious approach to the Muslim texts and conceives of itself as a reformist branch of Islam, reflecting the original message of the Prophet in its purest fashion. The means through which they achieve such a renovation of Islam is through the

199 lesson of the Khadim Rassoul, server of the Prophet, CAB. CAB is this way conceived as the mujaddid, the renovator.

Thus, MM, reflecting HT‟s wider project and network, is keen to promote and host cultural events and seminars, in the fashion of academic workshops. Cheick Anta Babou, a member of CAB‟s Mbacké family himself, is an exemplar of such an intellectual trend within the centre. Babou is associate professor of African History and the History of Islam in Africa in the history department of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. His research focuses on mystical Islam in West Africa and Senegal and on the new African Diaspora. He has lectured on these themes internationally and written extensively on the Mouride brotherhood. Dr Babou has recently come to the fore as an important name in the study of

Sufi Islam. MM is keen to embrace Dr. Babou‟s work, since it marks a difference in the study of the Mouride branch and of the colonial presence in Africa, along the lines promoted by MM.

Schmidt di Friedberg‟s seminal work (1994) on the Mourides in Italy has focused on the social integration of the urban dahiras and their interface between the Senegalese

Mourides migrants and the host society. The author shows how the dahiras, Mouride urban circles,play an important role in the integration of this specific migrant group in

Italy, since the former allow their faithful to integrate in the new society without having to renounce their tradition, to assimilate completely, or to become an enclave to maintain it.

In fact, she talks of the Mouride order as the “soft way” to integration (p. 40). The dahiras in this context operate, I would say, not dissimilarly from other dahiras in Europe and France, through strong networking and dynamism among the faithful themselves and

200 the different dahiras (in Italy and elsewhere). The most common feature of a Mouride talibés is that of carrying out business in connection with other Mourides around Europe and Senegal. Thus, as Ebin put it (1992), considering the strategies of the Mouride sellers at the market of Sandaga in Dakar, “anyone can be in the course of the same week wholesaler, retailer, peddler, import or export trader” (p. 93) due to the diversification and speed of the market and the roles one can play to place the merchandise. This is not different abroad, where the Mourides intensify their connections to expand their market and their networks, especially on the occasion of Mouride events. The economic aspect of the order is what in Schmidt‟s analysis defines the modernity of the Mouriddya, its association of prayer with work, which makes sense of the dynamism and mobility of the tariqa and its dissemination throughout the world. The Mourides are therefore highly flexible in terms of job activity and housing strategies, since both their work and stay is temporary and responds to the contingent situation (political, economic and individual).

Nevertheless, Senegalese (and Mouride) migration to Italy is a second option since “1986, when France and Germany introduced the visa requirement in accordance with the

Shengen Pact” (p. 50).

In France, Senegalese migration is a recent phenomenon too, yet the first wave of

Mouride migrants was attracted through the old channels of West African migration to

France, such as Marseille, Paris and Lyon. Due to France‟s more long-term relationship with Islam, dating back to the colonial time, Muslim associations have consolidated greater institutional weight compared to that of the Italian dahiras. Examples are the

Conseil Musulman de France (French Muslim Council) of which MM is part, and the proliferation of Muslim associations, within which the Mouride ones have appeared. With

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regards to the Mourides, it is not a coincidence that the founding of the first HT took place

in Paris and that the centre for the collection of money from the Mouride dahiras

throughout Europe is also in Paris.

In Paris, MM stands for a kind of Muslim Renaissance, through the education of the

young people in Islam and CAB‟s teachings (his qasidas), research activities such as

seminars, conferences, and also through the implementation of projects such as the

construction of the library at MM. MM has a great challenge to overcome: the Mbacké

family enjoys greater popularity because of the grip that CAB‟s descent has on the devout

imagination. Nonetheless, within the Mouridyya, especially in Senegal, there are other

Mouride families, which have both economic power and considerable weight within the

branch. One of these is the Bousso, the family of CAB‟s mother, and the Fall family, heir

of Ibra Fall, CAB‟s fortieth disciple18.

Even though HT promotes an orientation in the Mouridyya that favours CAB‟s teaching

over CAB‟s genealogy in the running of the Order and in the understanding of his lessons,

the second wife of the president of HT in Paris (who lives with him) is herself a member of

the Mbacké family, still a sign of renown and prestige. The president is still married to his

first wife back in Senegal. From both spouses he has several children.

MM sustains itself through the talibés‟ sas, self-taxation, which is different from the hadiya,

the donation given to the marabout as a tangible sign of gratitude or, in Copans‟ terms, of

18 Seidina Oumar, the second Khalif of Islam and a great Muslim reformer is said to have been the fortieth to embrace Islam. Because Ibra Fall was one of the most significant of CAB‟s disciples during the foundation of the tariqa, he is also said to be the fortieth of the former‟s following. The numerological significance can be traced in the association of significant Mouride personalities with illustrious figures of Islam (personal data). 202 dependence (1980). MM is also part of the Conseil Islamique de France, which mainly finances MM for its activities. The president of MM, before taking his responsibilities at

Taverny, taught children Qur‟anic classes and CAB‟s qasidas in the dahira of Tremblay.

With the formation of MM in Paris, the directors of HT in Dakar recruited him for a similar role in the newly formed MM of Paris. The president had also attempted to enter the

Sorbonne University, only to be turned down. He told me:

“During the recruiting day at the Sorbonne University, a professor was in charge to

examine my suitability to enter the university. We had a discussion on Islam and I

explained to him my point of view, that is, that Islam is the source of all things. In this

sense, the truth is a process that goes backwards, against the Western idea of progress

towards the future. All we know has come before us, where we have to turn. The professor

disagreed. We then were interrupted, because there was a telephone call for him. He came

back after a while and explained that he was sorry, but he had just been told by the head of

the department that they could not take me on the course. For me, this is emblematic of

French academia: they felt threatened by me as a Muslim, simply because I expressed a

different point of view, neither Western nor secularist. Institutionally it is not different

from other realities: when I went to hospital because my finger had swollen, I was treated

very rudely and unprofessionally, so much so that my infection got worse.”

The president has studied jurisprudence in Dakar; he is highly educated, as well as philosophically knowledgeable, attributes which must have played in his favour in the selection of the new president of HT in Paris. The contrast between the intellectual requirement as envisaged by French academia and by the Muslim milieu is stark and speaks volumes. In fact, the president of MM is no less an intellectual because the Sorbonne

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refused him access as a student. This controversy is incorporated in the formation of the

students at MM, steeped in the difference between the Social Sciences as an exercise of the

mind, and the Islamic Sciences, which are deemed to feed the mind and the soul, according

to CAB‟s classification of learning provided above. Beyond the gender problems that my

research implied in this and the Soninké milieu, as I explained in the methodological

chapter, my position as researcher at MM was also tested. After a number of philosophical

discussions about God and the human being, which I could support with my philosophical

background19, the president was well impressed by my grasp of theological and moral

issues, concerning religion. The fact that I declared myself Catholic helped them see in me a

valid interlocutor, since Islam is a step forward, in their view, from Catholicism.

The project in place at MM encounters monumental difficulties and the existence of HT in

Paris is at risk with financial problems and political opposition, which is as much internal

as external. The collection of money gathered from the talibés is not sufficient to cover

the expenses (maintenance and organizational) of religious activities and the education of

children and teenagers, who come to the MM during vacations, and who sleep and eat

there. The students contribute payments, but according to the president‟s assistant, the

money is never enough. In Senegal, on which HT and the Mourides worldwide depend,

symbolically and politically, there are detractors of HT within the Mouride cadres,

spreading rumours to diminish the movement and possibly the financial imput vital to its

survival. When Serin Mohammed Lamin Bara (Serin Saliou‟s first nephew and successor)

died, vilifications circulated saying that the Khalif had been poisoned. For a religious

19 I have pursued Philosophy studies in Venice, Italy, obtaining a degree in Philosophy, implying five years of study and the production of a thesis examined by a jury the day of the viva. At MM, they used to call me, in a very endearing way, “our communist (for my leftist orientation and political activity in my youth) Catholic philosopher”. 204 personality such as him, that sounded like the worst offence, for it portrayed him as someone with enemies that could wish for him a death one would imagine only for the most hated layman. This slander attempted to smear the Khalif‟s saintly status by attacking what he stood for: HT. The president‟s assistant would reveal to me in confidence that the Wahabi group, also present in the Île-de-France region, attempts to discredit them by reporting MM to the local Mayor with false accusations. Members of

MM themselves criticize the minimal diffusion of CAB‟s teaching among and outside of the community, mainly focused on a few qasidas and CAB‟s book Massalik Al Jinan.

Another controversial point is also the use of Wolof as a currency language. HT refuses to speak it in order to affirm CAB‟s message, purported to be universal, worldwide.

Nonetheless, the talibés mayalso speak the vernacular language at public events, together with French. Controversies within the movement and obstacles awaiting it are plentiful.

The president, with the help of his assistant, who assists him especially in the activities involving research and dissemination of information, is responsible for the managing of

MM. The activities span from the ordinary running of MM to greater Muslim and

Mouride events hosted at MM. Cultural projects aiming at the diffusion of CAB‟s teachings include the use of social networking through the media and blogging, and cultural venues hosted at MM, in Paris and other towns of France, which are part of the

Mouride web. The religious and cultural activities of MM in Paris will be the content of the following sections.

205 i. The organization of MM.

Trains linking Paris to the suburb can reach Taverny, where MM is in proximity of the train station. MM is a building with the typical French-house look: external metallic planters decorate the windows; the façade is made of rock bricks and is partly covered by vines.

There is a gate at the entrance, which leads into a medium size court into which open various entrances. The first leads to the lounge on the ground floor; the second to the kitchen; the third to the entry leading to the mosque and the flight of stairs to the upper floors. The fourth is a small arch after which is the wide garden with a patio; both the president and the talibés keep the garden in a good state by working at it routinely (mowing the grass, watering the plants and so on). The Mouride idea of work and prayer is very vivid in the activities carried at MM, where all the talibés are expected to do maintenance and organizational jobs as much as praying.

MM started out as part of HT‟s wider project and networking (see following) and, in particular, it is the centre of the talibés’ religious practice and education. In this sense and for the organization of its space, MM is considered a Mouride Islamic centre, since the urban dahiras are minor circles of talibés meeting to pray and save money to self-fund their circle. The daaras, in the classic understanding explained above, is the Qur‟anic school, which is now a part of MM‟s multiple activities. MM‟s aim is to provide the tools for the understanding of Islam and Mouridism to Muslims and non-Muslims alike. My presence as a researcher at MM fitted this objective. Since 2002, that is, after its foundation, the centre has attempted to expand research in such a direction. The president and his assistant, a researcher himself in the Social Sciences, as well as a Mouride, have embarked upon this gigantic enterprise. To do so, they avail themselves, with their

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collaborators, of the academic work written on CAB and of the oral history. The first

endeavour is not dissimilar to any other academic research focused on a specific subject.

The second, as I view it, is rather more complex. At MM an attempt is in place to

transcribe, as it were, CAB‟s history, through written and unwritten sources. Specialists

on the subject of the Mouridyya put their effort into this, so that a great deal of work on

CAB‟s opus is under way. In fact, a wealth of CAB‟s odes and poems (written in

Wolofal20) has so far not been studied, interpreted and even less disseminated. This is the

main challenge.

There is an administrative department within MM, which is responsible for maintaining

the good functioning of MM both financially and politically with the Muslim associations

and with the French mayor. MM has been actively involved in the foundation of the

Federation of Mouride Associations of France, an important ground for discussion about

the role of Islam and of the Muslim realities in France. For example, at the time of the

riots in the suburbs of Paris and other towns in France (autumn 2005), the Muslim

community was at the centre of the polemics and was accused of being responsible for the

crisis by the then Prime Minister N. Sarkozy. The Muslim community unanimously

distanced themselves from the accusations, inviting their faithful to pray and to keep away

from the streets. They also refused to call a fatwa – as suggested by N. Sarkozy – to invite

the rioters to calm, as by doing so, they would have admitted their responsibility for the

acts of violence.

20 The Wolofal is Wolof phonetic written in Arabic. 207

The Dahira Rawdu Rayahina, led by the president‟s wife, is at the core of the young women‟s education. The latter attend MM to learn the Qur‟an and the Islamic Sciences fortnightly. Attending MM always implies the dedication of a good part of the day. MM is conceived as CAB‟s “house”, requiring an effort in terms of time, dress-codes and concentration during the classes. Moreover, the latter often overlap with prayer time, so the students can pray with the president‟s wife in the lounge. Alternatively, the students go to MM for the time of the set prayer, before starting their lesson. Of course, it depends how long the lessons last and when they start, which is generally over weekends and in the afternoon. They can also nourish themselves with the food and drink, which are always provided at MM. The president is proud of MM‟s hospitability, because:

“Already by being at MM one feels the good of CAB‟s milieu. One should sense the peace

here, since it was CAB‟s first intention to bring peace into the world through the word of

the Qur‟an.”

Similarly, the daara of the children is run at MM in the classical tradition of Qur‟anic schools for the children as back in Senegal. It represents the second pillar of MM after the mosque (to which I will come later), where the education of the “good Muslim” is envisaged to take place. After the long tradition within the Mouridyya of such institutions, it was unsurprising to find a daara at MM, as the person responsible for it(again the president) says. Theory completes the moral and ethical preparation of the children, both male and female, who attend MM at weekends, during public holidays and school vacations. Pedagogical tools have been improved and discussed within MM in order to provide the young talibés with an accessible means for the alphabetization, learning and reading of the Qur‟an and the qasidas, together with workshops of kourel (a particular 208 way of chanting the dhikr) and the chanting of the dhikr. Moreover, particular emphasis is put on fraternization and solidarity, elements which are essential in the life within the community. Young children learn to partake of experiences like sleeping together in big rooms, sharing meals, attending the classes and praying together. The children also undergo individual evaluation for the assessment of their improvement and any difficulties. Eventually, at the end of the course, a party is held at MM to celebrate and mark the children‟s effort.

The community bond and sense of community life, which the Mourides create amongst his talibés is a vital element of the dynamism and cohesion of the tariqa. The vertical relationship talibé-marabout, to which much scholarly attention has turned, sustains itself through the „horizontal‟ talibés‟ inter-aid. The latter learn it since they are young especially in the daara and generally through the activities that the tariqa promotes to bring the talibés together in their adult life. Thus, the structure is pyramidal. The solidarity at the base of this pyramid, as it were, is also a motive by which new affiliates come to the tariqa. Conversions to Islam and then affiliation to the tariqa, or Muslims adhering to other branches of Sufi Islam in Senegal (such as the Tijanyya) now turning to the Mouride order, is an increasingly prevalent phenomenon. This shows 1) the success of its proselytising and 2) the fact that it corresponds to the Mouride Islamization of the periphery. In other words, Muslim migrants adhere to the Mouridyya upon migration for at least two reasons. Schmidt, as shown above, elucidates the first; the second is that HT represents a niche within the Mouridyya, allowing the Mourides to identify with CAB‟s

Sufism in terms of its message, rather than for its expediency. Differently from Senegal, where this Sufi order is powerful and due to outnumber the others in the next decades, HT

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stands as a reform movement within the movement. In Paris, it attracts Muslim students,

whose education is average or high according to the French standard. The Mourides,

whose spiritual and intellectual quest march together, find their rationale in this tariqa as

much as those talibés who are simply happy to be part of its network, to practice its Sufi

rituals and wird21 and to participate in the Mouride celebrations. As a Mouride and ex-

Tijan said to me at MM:

“I turned to the Mouride order because I found everything here. It made sense and I felt

that I had found what I missed: a community life, Islam in its purest sense, CAB‟s

teaching, and our network. Everything!”

The mosque at MM, as explained by MM‟s organizers and the talibés, is the first pillar of

the centre, for it is represents the ummah, insofar as the prayer room is the symbol of

Islam and of its community of faith. A rector, who plays the role of interface vis-à-vis

political, religious and administrative authorities, leads it. Around him are a number of

imams, whose task is to lead the different prayers, taking place at MM; these are: the

Friday prayers, the supererogatory prayers of the month of Ramadan, those of aϊd el-fitr

and aϊd el-kabir. The imams are also responsible for the smooth and good running of the

activities taking place at MM and to ensure that they respect the principles of Islam. In

fact, they also take part in the discussions regarding the cultural and strategic decisions

taken at HT, concerning the education of the youth, the religious personalities invited at

MM (such as the touring marabouts) and their reception, and so on. They are responsible

for the reading of the Qur‟an and for answering the community‟s questions about the

21 Ritual formula of allegiance to the Mouride tariqa, whose meaning the talibé is expected to master through the teaching of the tariqa. 210

latter‟s conduct as Muslims in France. The imams are also solicited on occasions of births,

funerals and to pray for the sick, when these occur. The novelty in the role of the imams at

MM is also their participation in the Commission de Suivi du Croissant Lunaire

(Commission on the Procedure of the Rising Moon22), a research group made up by the

talibés, whose contribution to the knowledge of the sacred texts is considerable. This

commission is assisted and supported by specialists in the area, who supervise and advise

on the matter.

The Centre de Recherche d‟Étude et de Documentation sur l‟Islam - CREDI Khadim

Rassoul (the Khadim Rassoul‟s Centre for the Study and Documentation on Islam) is

another fundamental structure present at MM and probably the highest accomplishment of

HT. Its initiative, according to MM‟s explanation, is to give form to the prophetic

message, in that the latter makes research and knowledge compulsory. Thus, the

objectives of the CREDI are to: 1) promote the talibés‟ scientific research by helping

them edit and publish their results; 2) advise, inform and supervise them in their

endeavours; 3) network with cultural associations and research centres so that researchers

can meet and exchange their views and results; and finally 4) organise conferences, talks

and seminars. The action of the CREDI is premised on the intention to rectify or redress

CAB‟s understanding as a particular or ethnic expression of Islam. Hence, the CREDI

reflects MM‟s vision, which portrays CAB as the Khadim Rassoul, the qutb (messenger)

of his time and the leading saintly figure of all centuries. All of these points are the

projects and aims of the CREDI, on which the organisers and the talibés are now

concentrating their intellectual and financial resources.

22 The “rising moon” is also the figurative symbol (together with a little star next to it) of Islam. 211

The library project is part of the CREDI, as part of the fundamental facilities necessary for the dissemination of the knowledge and teaching of the tariqa. It stores documents and books on: Islam and Sufism, including copies of the Qur‟an; the Prophet‟s tradition

(Hadith and the Sunna) and the Muslim jurisprudence (fiqh); exegesis and commentaries on the Qur‟an (tafsir); history of religions and of the great saints of Islam; CAB‟s qasidas and miscellaneous works such as encyclopaedias and books of general interest in the social sciences. The library also hosts an audiovisual archive where proceedings of

Mouride conferences and events in France are stocked, as well as cassettes popularising themes such as the jinn, the pillars of Islam, the HT network and so on. The store is the result of both MM‟s purchases and donations; the cataloguing and digitization of the material is under way (under the assistant‟s supervision), so that it will be of easier access for the researchers (Muslim and otherwise) visiting the centre. Moreover, a media centre is also under construction, where internet access is available to all. MM is also working to set up a radio station.

Following the Sufi tradition of the dhikr, MM has also put in place a music academy of a kind, where three different kourels are performed. Its aim is to educate in the techniques of vocal expression that the declamation of the qasidas and religious chants require. One of the religious chants is also the call to prayer by the muezzin, a particularly important moment, and a difficult performance due to the high-pitch tones and modulation of the sounds, also emphasized in the kourel chants, and which, in fact, aims to be a vessel of meditation and trance. A board of directors teaches music to the talibés and the way to perform the chants, along the Sufi tradition. It is important that the talibés perform under the direction of a guide, since the state of trance has to be sought to avoid the haphazard

212 loss of control, into which the talibés might lapse. The music centre is also a workshop, testing the use of the voice, in accordance with the tradition of the ancestors, jangu makk in Wolof, as the leading teacher explained to me. The qasidas and the melodies chosen are the result of a selection process decided by the board of directors, in response to the pedagogic requirements, necessary to achieve expected outcomes. The philosophy of the music centre is that of maintaining the tradition of the kourel as it has been passed on for generations, so that the mark of tradition, with its cultural and musical heritage, would be already present in these performances. This way, the musical tradition would go in parallel with the musical innovations attempted at the centre.

The president supervises all the activities taking place at MM, so that the directory responds to him for the schedule of the kourels; the daaras for the children and the youth are run and organised by him and all the major decisions concerning MM are his responsibility. Beyond the ordinary ones regarding the education of the children and the ritual gathering for the kourels and Friday prayers, there are also special occasions for both the community and MM. These are the organization required to host both important

Muslim celebrations and the visiting marabouts, such as Cheick Mortada, for example, at

MM. Moreover, MM is a reference point for the community, which also turns to it to find comfort and support for their personal matters. On several occasions I saw a Mouride woman attending MM to talk to the president after her husband had abandoned her. The president acted as a community leader, and he was solicited to help a talibé in distress should he or she need it. He talked to her on the phone several times, invited her to attend

MM to discuss her situation further and to devise strategies. MM is part of a powerful community network able to mobilise Mourides‟ family and village acquaintances in order

213 to obtain information and/or help. The woman in question turned to MM for the immediate support and relief she could gain from the president and his wife‟s support and prayers, but she also knew that they might have more chances of tracking her husband down. Moreover, the president deals with the bureaucratic and administrative matters of

MM (bills, maintenance, relationship with the mayor and so on). Hence, he has many responsibilities on his shoulders, which he can only partly share with his collaborators

(the rector of the mosque, his assistant, the imams and his own wife). Since its foundation in 2001, MM has started a number of important projects and community actions, yet its objective appears to be bigger than the resources it has in place to achieve them.

The main contrasts and real conflicts at MM lie in the management team and in the kourel group, which attracts people from different background and “sensitivities”, as one talibé explained to me. The managing of MM is a particular one, since normally other MMs are based on the talibés’ savings and therefore they belong to the community. MM of Taverny

(also called Touba-Taverny to stress its importance and allegiance to CAB‟s sacred town) was instead bought by the Khalif Serin Saliou Mbacké. This transformed it into a property of the Mbacké family, which runs it. At the death of the Khalif, MM‟s direction has passed on to the Khalif‟s son, Serin Cheick Mbacké. Over time, and also due to the decease of the then Khalif, conflicts within HT arose when it was taken over by M.

Assouman, whose complex personality and strict management skills did not find favour with the talibés of Paris. The running of MM was dictated from Senegal and the faithful did not feel free to make use of their space. Moreover, M. Assoumane was probably too keen on asking for the sas, Mouride taxation, since he is also the shareholder of roughly ten per cent of MM‟s earnings. The talibés complained that MM was turning into a

214 money-machine rather than being a religious centre where the talibés go to pray and participate in the collection of money as they wish or can. Assoumane‟s leadership has created controversies even in Senegal, where the movement has split into two sub- branches, the Qutud and the Istikhama.

Gradually MM has detached itself from Assoumane and his management, so as to become independent, even though in its inspirational lines, it still follows HT‟s tenets. MM pursues all the same tarqiyyah, that is, the education of the youth through study and research, and through the idea of future leadership. This focuses on the eligibility of the successor based on his spiritual qualities and leadership competence, rather then on silsila-baraka, the succession through CAB‟s family. Only a few of the talibés at MM are members of HT. The president himself, who also dresses in the HT‟s fashion (long white gowns adorned by the characteristic scarf), adheres to HT‟s philosophy, as it were, even though he was at the centre of the conflict with M. Assoumane, which brought MM‟s disengagement from the latter. Piga (2002, p. 225) gives an account of another very critical moment in the history of HT in Senegal, between 1996-1997, when the Baye Fall sub-branch took control over the Daaray Kamil library and the great Mosque of Touba, up to then controlled by the Bousso, the family of CAB‟s mother. The tariqa is consumed in its entirety by rivalries over power, which often come down to individual greed or family interest, rather than to the needs of the tariqa. MM is now proud to be a vanguard in

France for the projects it puts into place and which, by virtue of their quality and following, have even superseded those of HT in Senegal. The latter is apparently lagging behind and entrusting its activity to minor web-sites for the diffusion of its message, while it should be the leading reference for the movement. Both MM‟s president and assistant

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revealed to me that during festive occasions, like the magal23 for example, HT‟s

representative visit MM rather to spy on MM‟s proceedings and report to M. Assoumane,

rather than to participate as loyal talibés.

Jealousies over the president‟s work at MM have also involved his wife, Mme Nafi,

leader of the women‟s daara. Mme Nafi is a very strict and serious woman, who gives

Qur‟anic classes to the girls. Education at MM is firstly conceived of as spiritual, and the

posture required of the talibés is one of modesty and composure. The teenagers attending

MM for the classes behave as many girls of their age would, that is, they are often noisy,

dress inappropriately, follow the current fashion in Paris rather than the ideal of hijab,

covering of the body, consonant with such a religious Muslim place. Mme Nafi does not

hesitate to reprimand them as much as she does with those more grown up or of the same

age group as hers. She has not gathered much favour, especially with some women who

“attended the centre to have their own audience”, she said. The antipathy grew way out of

proportion, to the point that a group of six talibés organised themselves to attack Mme

Nafi at MM, when the president was in Senegal. Following her and the assistant‟s

accounts, she managed to escape into a room, to call the rector of the mosque, who arrived

at MM and solved the dramatic situation by threatening the group with reporting them to

the police. The president was informed of the matter while in Senegal and decided to meet

the group. The meeting took place and these people still attend MM. The president cannot

refuse access to anyone at MM, since it is symbolically the house of Serin Touba, CAB.

23 The Magal is the Mouride commemoration of CAB‟s exile to Gabon (September 1895; his second exile, to Mauritania, took place in June 1903), which for the community represents the symbolic moment for the tariqa, since CAB survived his exile and later founded the Mouridyya notwithstanding the colonial opposition. In Senegal, the Magal is the most attended and widespread Mouride venue, during which the whole country stops in its preparation and attendance. Copans (1980, p. 188) described it as a Feast of Humanity of a sort, for the sense of communion and participation involving all strata of society.

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The tension has now reached a high peak, and the president and his team know well that similar situations may occur at any time. Interestingly, the assistant told me that one of the risks they also run is that somebody might want to cast an evil spell on them and their families, maraboutage (see following chapter). Thus, MM‟s team is united for at least two reasons: the task on which they have embarked requires their total dedication and commitment, which are starting to bear fruit now. Secondly, as we have seen, internal rivalries and external disfavour have made the cohesiveness and cooperation of the team

MM‟s primary goals. The uniqueness of MM, with regards to both HT and the other dahiras throughout Europe, reveals possibilities for Islam and in particular Mouridism in

Europe. MM is availing itself of all the research instruments and funding resources possible to respond to the intellectual wave of the Islamic revival started already forty years ago. In Senegal as much as in France, MM is one of the few Islamic centres still engaged in that direction and it pursues its ambitions through its religious activities and through the Journées Khadim Rassoul, international days dedicated to the study of CAB‟s writings.

III. Two Mouride cultural events in Paris.

In this section, I will discuss two Mouride events in order to weigh MM‟s strengths and weaknesses in its bumpy road to settling down in Paris. The first is the UNESCO meeting

(Oct. 2005) and the second the Journée Khadim Rassoul (henceforth JKR) held at MM, with Dr. Babou invited as a guest (May 2006). The first was an open public event organised in the tradition of the UNESCO meetings inaugurated in 1979, following the

Muslim intellectual revival of those years in Senegal (see above). In 1981, the second

“cultural week in honour of CAB” was held at the UNESCO (Schmidt, ibid, p. 41). Thus,

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the meeting I attended in 2005 was part of long Mouride and Parisian tradition alike. I will

comment on its outcome and reception by the larger community in Paris in order to see

how their relationship has changed and what the Mouride community has achieved. On the

other hand, the JKR will be object of study to understand the community‟s reception of

MM in Paris.

The UNESCO meeting in Paris was designed as a public debate on Mouridism and its

leading figure CAB. The talks were held in French and translated by an interpreter or via

earphones provided to the audience when held in Wolof. Ministers, intellectuals and

professional singers of chants24 and praises all participated. Among the discussants were

also the women of a dahira, whose leaders explained and promoted the general activity of

the organization. Overall, gender divisions ruled: women and men were seated separately

and, during the discussion, only the latter asked their questions. In the end, the whole set

up of the day was staged like a Mouride public event: Senegalese talibés made up almost

the entire audience; beyond the journalists, the presence of French delegates and people

was scarce. I attended the venue with the MM‟s assistant.

People flowed into the building gradually but consistently and continued to arrive almost

until the end of the event, starting at 4 pm and finishing at around midnight. As is the case

at any Mouride gathering, the security and ushers were the Bay Fall - the sub-group of the

Mouride brotherhood, founded by Cheick Ibrah Fall, CAB‟s closest follower - who first

checked the guests at the entrance, then ushered them into the meeting. They also helped

during the break, organising the table for the buffet, distributing soft drinks and

24 The griots, professional singers, sang the epic of powerful men and families. CAB is regarded as a saintly man, whose order is also one the most financially successful in Senegal. 218 entertaining the children. Towards the conclusion of the day, the Bay Fall also improvised a ritual chant in the UNESCO hall, as well as a circular dance in honour of Bay Fall: everyone joined in, including myself. It was remarkable also that the dhikr ritual chanted was in honour of Ibra Fall and that, apart from MM‟s, assistant nobody else from Taverny was present.

I was part of the women‟s group, mostly married women with young children. They had come accompanied by their husbands, and the young women by their partners or male friends. I sat next to a young lady, who had come by car from the south of France, travelling the whole night before the meeting. She was exhausted and did not seem to pay too much attention to the talks. She eventually declared the meeting was (for her and possibly the other women) a social and glittering event, for enjoyment rather than learning, a New Year‟s Eve of sorts. Women wore their best garments, adorned with jewellery, make up and colourful foulards. Their appearance was very flamboyant and clearly intended to make an impression. Men‟s clothes, both traditional and of European style, were more sober. During the break, fried rolls were served together with drinks of tea, coffee and juice.

The Senegalese minister of culture talked about the role of Mouridism in Senegal and abroad, about the importance for the new generations to embrace CAB‟s values, especially when living outside Senegal. Mouridism was portrayed as the religious grounding for being both good Muslims and Senegalese, so that the national identification with

Mouridism and vice versa, of Mouridism with Senegal, seemed to overlap. This way, and contradictorily, the universalism of CAB‟s message appeared to coincide with being

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Senegalese and Wolof in the first place, which constituted the impasse that HT would like

to overcome. The crowed flicked their fingers by way of approval, when the speakers

talked of CAB, of his action as a religious man and of his battle against the French

colonists, which should have brought up the reflection on the subject of being Muslims in

France. The talk diverted instead to the individual activities of the women‟s dahiras, so

that the president of one of these talked. She explained the activity of their dahira, the

seminars taking place there, the collection of money gathered by the talibés for Touba and

Diarra Bousso‟s25 example which inspires them. In this religious environment (and in other

milieus too), it is a well-established tradition to refer to the eponymous founder in order to

give meaning and substance to the current Mouride community, showing the continuity of

the message between the forefathers and their heirs through the life of the community. For

the women‟s dahiras, on the other hand, CAB‟s mother is regarded as the exemplar of the

religious work of the Mouride women, their posture and position in society. Female talibés

and Senegalese women in particular are deemed responsible for educating their children

and bringing them up as good Muslims. There is a Wolof saying that conceives of the

child‟s good luck in life (or baraka, as destiny) as depending on his mother‟s conduct.

Mouride women in Paris seem to combine both an attitude of emulation of CAB‟s

mother‟s purity with one rather embedded in society, according to which they are very

active religiously and in the family, to which they also contribute financially. The fact that

most of the women present at the UNESCO conference came along with their children

showed a great deal of commitment to both the tariqa and their family. In fact, it is

important for them to expose their children to these gatherings since they are little, so that

they grow up in this milieu and absorb its habits and values. As one participant at the

25Diarra Bousso was CAB‟s mother. The Bousso family is now one of the most prestigious in Senegal. 220 venue told me, it is not at all simple to have a little child behave for six/eight hours without running around or being noisy.

All in all, those who helped organise the event commented on its outcome as not particularly successful. Some of the guests did not get to talk, translations were uneven and what was meant to be an international day to make the brotherhood known was very inwardly led, with little participation by the wider French community. Communication between the recipient and host community was not achieved, even if this was the intent. On the other hand, the talibés’ participation, presence and support were extraordinary.

Nevertheless, the turnout at the venue did not live up to the promise or that expected of the meeting.

Likewise, only a restricted number of people attended the JKR, which took place at the

Mouride centre of Taverny. Nevertheless, the organizational effort had been significant, since the preparation of such an important Mouride event starts at least a couple months in advance. Dr Babou, one of the main convenors, had flown to Paris at the beginning of the week, as the JKR took place over Friday and Saturday. He had been invited in February, ahead of time, considering his work commitments and that he lives in the United States. He was a guest in one of the organizers‟ house in Paris. He gave his talk on Friday, the most important day of the Muslim week, during which important events are organised, even if not falling squarely within the commemoration day.

MM‟s imam opened the event in the morning with a speech, followed by a reading from the Qur‟an and the declamation of CAB‟s qasidas. Most of the people started arriving in

221 the afternoon, after their working day had finished or because they came over from other towns in France. When I arrived to MM, I was immediately received by the president and his assistant and introduced to a Mouride representative of a dahira in Guadeloupe. She was there with her husband, also Mouride, and both ex-Catholics, now converted to Islam and affiliated to Mouridism. We spent most of day together and were regarded as special guests. I could sit in the lounge with the elder women, in contrast to the first time, during the mouloud, when I sat on the ground floor with younger women. The young talibés hurried away and connected the TV in the lounge and the speakers in other rooms of the second floor, with the camera downstairs in the patio where the conference was taking place. In fact, men and women were kept separate. The Guadeloupian lady commented bitterly on the organization of the event throughout the day. At one point, we gathered in the court with the assistant and discussed the way the day was unfolding: it was not easy to hear what the convenors were saying, some of them even spoke Wolof and the conference had started late, which created some discomfort for many who had to make their way back to Paris.

The first speaker was an Arabist of MM, who is also educated in Islam and in CAB‟s work.

He was the first to give a talk and the theme he focused on were the answers CAB gave to the French colonial authorities when he was summoned in front of the jury before being exiled. Within the branch, this topic is both historic and symbolic. CAB‟s exile is at the centre of the saint‟s epic, which is portrayed both historically and after the Sufi symbolism.

CAB‟s suffering at the hand of the French colonists is recounted repeatedly as a proof of the evil of the white French colonial enterprise, and construed as the trials Allah sent upon him to test his faith in his ascension towards Him. According to CAB‟s hagiography, the saint

222 aimed at becoming like one of the Prophet‟s companions (a qutb), who have no parallels in this world. His holiness, purity and closeness to Allah gained through the many trials and obstacles to his faith that he experienced during the exile, meant that he eventually became the Khadim Rassoul, the server of the Prophet Mohammed. The first speaker explained

CAB‟s eighteen answers to the jury, corresponding to the Sufi and Mouride principles of iman (profession of faith) through the tawid (principle of unity of God); Islam (submission to God) through fiqh (meditation) and ihsan (spiritual perfection) through tasawwuf

(Sufism). The jury tried to elicit the nature, purpose and place of origin of Mouridism, which CAB countered with the claims towards the universality of Muslim principles and the worldwide spreading of the ummah. In this way, CAB attempted to discredit the false accusations that were made against him, which aimed at disqualifying him as a religious leader and depict him as an agitator, subverting the masses against the French colonial control.

The arabist‟s intervention was very much appreciated and the fact that he inaugurated the talks also showed the weight of his position at MM and where the latter‟s interest lie. The magal celebrates CAB‟s return from exile and the establishment of the Mouridyya in

Senegal, notwithstanding the colonial power. It is central for this Sufi branch to emphasise its own achievements, not only to enjoy the festive and joyful moment of the day, but also to be usefully reminded of its strengths in the face of adversities. In my view, the economic success of the Mourides worldwide is not necessarily recognised for the Mouride order in the diaspora. In France, as mentioned above, the tariqa encounters the difficulties entailed by settling at the margins, that is, away from the religious centre and in a foreign country.

The media, for example, stormed the news (spring 2006) with a programme defaming the

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Mouride community and the role of the marabout, portrayed as an exploiter, for whom the

Mouride peddlers would supposedly work. The Mourides are a minority in France (religious and ethnic), so they perceived the scandal as gratuitous and unfair, since they were not given the chance to intervene, nor had the power to do so. Thus, occasions like the JKR and the magal serve as a way of keeping together and of consolidating the community through the evocation of the memory of past successes. Moreover, the magal, as it is celebrated in

Senegal, is one of the greatest moments for the order and for the entire country, which is overwhelmed and swept off its feet by its preparation and the number of people participating in it, so that the main activities of the country can only be resumed once the magal has ended. The magal in Paris is metonymic of the Senegalese magal, where people go to Touba to celebrate their saint in the hope of receiving his baraka. Attending the house of Serin Touba is very significant for the faithful in Paris, who cannot carry out their visit to

CAB‟s shrine in Senegal, because they have work commitments in France or because they cannot afford it.

The JKR of Taverny was very intimate: tens of people were at the conference in the patio.

The young talibés hung about MM, looking after the younger children and organising the meals, which signalled times of pause during the conference. Thus, there was a break late in the afternoon and later in the evening. Food consumption is an important event, since the food is conceived to be blessed. The women, who cook it, not only prepare halal food, they also pray to Allah and sing the kourel to magnify CAB and the abundance of his “house”; in the Sufi circles, “the giving of food is a source of merit [baraka], transferred to the soul of the saint” (Werbner, 1996, p. 316). Werbner contends that at the centre of the Sufi cults is not (or not simply) the idea of bounded “totemic spaces”, with reference to Strathern‟s irony

224 about the mapping of religious understandings onto geographical spaces, but rather their interconnectedness through space, which makes sense of their dynamism and expansion into the West and the lands of the infidels, the kafirs. The author sees the particularizing of the universalist message as manifest through space, hence their diffusion. Even though this has to be kept in mind with reference to the Sufi cults, within the Mouride community, in particular at MM of Taverny, this discourse is turned on its head. The Mourides interpret

CAB‟s mission, as the great jihad, that is, the fight against the low instincts of the soul

(nafs) through the Sufi path of purification, which will unite the Mouride (faithful) with

Allah and the Prophet. As a Sufi order, Mouridism declares itself as not being in any way different from Islam, hence its universalism. In fact, MM is portrayed as an Islamic centre where the study of the Qur‟an and the Hadiths of the Prophet are taught. The kourels, chants of the qasidas, during which the dhikr is performed, is for the talibés expression of submission (Islam) to Allah through meditation (fiqr). Sufism, or tasawwuf, is the way to

Allah through the purification of the heart (ihsan). The merging of the mouridoullah with

Allah is the ultimate goal, which the saint, like CAB, attains “before returning to instruct” the community (p. 321). For the Mourides, the community encompasses the whole world, that is, the ummah.

Dr Babou presented his work along the lines of his work, by stressing the points of his research in accordance with MM‟s vision of Mouridism and CAB‟s lesson. These were ideas on the role of the tariqa, on the pedagogical mission of the Muslim teacher (tarbyya), on the importance of passing on CAB‟s values to the new generations.

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Babou‟s scholarly work on CAB and the brotherhood focuses on the founder‟s thought and Sufi tenets (2003; 2007)), in the light of their intellectual and pedagogic value. He argues that the relationship marabout-talibé, to which much of the scholarly attention has been dedicated so far, underlying the economic and social of the Mouride organization, is instead primarily an educational one. Babou traces such relationship back to the Qadriyya order, to which CAB was affiliated before founding his own tariqa and from which he drew the understanding of Sufism as “moderate asceticism that allows the Sufi to seek

God sincerely while remaining involved with his society” (Babou, 2003, p. 313). Still, according to Babou, for CAB, seeking education was the primary duty of a human being.

CAB developed a theory of the method and the requirements of the teacher, since the

“ultimate goal of education is to make good Muslims” (idem, pp. 315-316). The process as he designed it implied three stages: talim, tarbiyya and tarqiyyah. The first was responsible for nourishing the brain through the Islamic sciences, the study of the Qur‟an, the Sunna and the Hadith. The second was the esoteric science dedicated to the formation of the spirit through the purification of the soul (ishan) against the temptations of the bodily desires (the nafs). It was through tarqiyyah that a few gifted disciples ascended to

God, overcoming “the futility of material life and put them in a position of leadership in the community” (p. 316). For CAB the role of the spiritual leader was never detached from his action within the community: “whenever the society needs the shaikh to repair a wrong, then his contribution becomes compulsory” (p. 314). Spiritual education was for

CAB the means to fight “the ceddo culture [the habits of the court and its royal warriors] and the encroachment of the French colonization” (p. 320). In this way, the Mouridiyya was conceived to educate the masses through education (talim and tarbiyya) under the leadership of the spiritual leader, the tarqiyyah. In this sense, Babou argues for CAB‟s

226 tarqiyyah as a transforming force of society in the face of the colonial conquest, not differently from what I also argued (2006) about the character of peaceful resistance in

CAB‟s message.

Dr Babou‟s talk, academically serious, aimed at strengthening the community‟s endorsement of God‟s message in the world through testimony and praise. The talk was followed in the evening with dhikr chants, which were joined by those who arrived later.

In my view, the two Mouride gatherings staged rather different Mouride intentions in spirit and purpose: at the first was an amalgam of people, also attracted by the possibilities of meeting other talibés, very much in the fashion described by Schmidt (see above).

MM‟s JKRs aim is to attract talibés, who also share their standpoint, which is one of attempting to strengthen the universalist and intellectual outlook of the tariqa, certainly better equipped to counter the French universalist Republicanism than the simple Mouride dahiras or even MM of Aulany. For example, the latter staged a procession in the streets to “sacralise their space” (Werbner, 1996) and bring CAB‟s message out into the wider community, from which MM of Taverny dissented. The latter deemed the event “a masquerade” only good to please the French (already) negative opinion about the

Mourides. MM‟s main problem is its scarce numeric representation and the consequent or concomitant poor financial resources, with which it is struggling not only in the setting up of projects, but also for ordinary financial matters.

IV. MM‟s projects in Paris.

As much as the Mouride tariqa is powerful and well-spread both within Senegal and worldwide, it may appear that itis a perfectly functioning and yet self-enclosed microcosm,

227 as authors like Diouf (2000) would want it. According to my data though, MM contradicts such schematization since, as a Mouride Islamic centre, it attempts to bring its “universal message” out to the wider community, namely, by extending its projects outside MM. As the ones responsible for MM argue, MM is not a simple urban dahira organised around a number of talibés who need a place for their ritual prayers and dhikrs, inwhich only

Mourides eventually participate. As seen above, MM‟s communitarian purpose and breath is symbolised by the encompassment of all the Muslims (not necessarily Mourides) and non-Muslims, so that it is open to everyone, to either assist seminars, festive occasions and prayer (just for the Muslims). Moreover, contrary to Bava‟s analysis (2004) of HT, as a movement of those discredited from power, MM is attempting to position itself as an independent religious centre, unique in its stance even vis-à-vis HT, from which it originated. I intend to present two examples of this process, albeit only recently initiated, in which MM is implicated. The first is the cooperative project with the Muslim bookshop Al

Bustane, while the second is MM‟s participation in the events held at the Institut des

Cultures d‟Islam (Institute of the Cultures of Islam), both in Barbès, the eighteenth borough of Paris. The physical and symbolic movement of MM from the Île-de-France region to

Paris is also representative of a process of de-marginalization and participation into a wider

Muslim network, in which MM is becoming a new authoritative voice.

The Al Bustane bookshop is situated in Barbès, more precisely at the Goutte d‟Or, an up- and-coming gentrified part of the neighbourhood, where newly-opened art shops, bookshops, little ethnic restaurants and night clubs attract both the locals, mainly of West

African origin, and the bohemian glitterati of Paris, who enjoy in this part of town the vibes of a rich cultural mix. At the Goutte d‟Or there are also a number of less recent Senegalese

228 tailors‟ workshops. In fact, the latter are linked to the first Senegalese migration in the

1980s. Al Bustane opened twelve years ago and has a good reputation as a Muslim bookshop, for it is well equipped with material on the main themes of Islam, together with editions of the Qur‟an in French and Arabic, Encyclopaedias of Islam and so forth. Al

Bustane has developed a solid network of suppliers, so that MM chose it as its own supplier for the library project in place at Taverny. MM obtains the books it needs at advantageous prices. During the time of my fieldwork the cooperative project had just started, which meant that I could observe the proceedings over time. At the beginning, when the library was just an idea, nothing was there apart from the physical space of two rooms, one more spacious, which would have held the books, and the second, more restricted, where the research team met. The actual library had yet to be built. Then, the president and his team purchased the bookshelves and started out with the donations of books provided by the talibés. At that stage though, the library was very meagre. The „cooperative‟ element lies in that Al Bustane furnishes MM with all the material MM needs for the different activities it runs. As to the mosque, Al Bustane donates copies of the Qur‟an and advertises MM‟s important activities and events, when these take place at Taverny. Al Bustane and MM aim at enlarging the scope of MM‟s popularization through more sophisticated forms of publicity, such as the media and presentation forums and/or project launches. These two partners have the ambition to transform MM‟s library so that it will be able to attract

Muslim (and not) researchers internationally. The daara of MM is also one of the main recipient and beneficiaries of such cooperation, since teaching of the Qur‟an to the children and teenagers implies the deployment of pedagogic tools adequate to this age group. Thus,

Al Bustane provides handbooks for the learning of the Qur‟an, the history of Islam and books for entertainment too, designed for the youth “in accordance with Islam”.

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Al Bustane also cooperates with MM‟s CREDI to support it in its research work and in the acquisition of documentation that may be more easily found in Paris than elsewhere. Al

Bustane and MM have also newly opened a conference room at the Goutte d‟Or, which will be supported by the formation of the Maison d‟Edition (Publishing House) run by Al

Bustane, which will publish MM‟s literary productions. The latter will include CAB‟s works on tawid, fiqr and tasawwuf (Sufism) and his qasidas, in such a way as to reach the greatest number of readers, beyond those already acquainted with these religious texts. The books and qasidas will also be distributed to Muslim associations, Parisian libraries (which may want to include this religious material) and so forth. The Maison d‟Edition will also be a springboard for the promotion of young scholars‟ original work and thus for their entry into academic publishing; it will also publish the proceedings of the conferences and seminars organised by the CREDI. Al Bustane and the CREDI have agreed on the launch of a journal, and its digitization, which will treat the current issues concerning the Mouride community. At the moment, a merchandise business is financing the opening of the Maison d‟Edition, which will eventually grant both the employees‟ salaries and further earnings for social projects.

The merchandise sold are the boubous (traditional gowns) and shoes26. From the initial design to the current realization, it appears that MM and Al Bustane‟s cooperation has, leapfrogging, moved forwards enormously. At present, all of MM‟s organisms are operative and both MM and Al Bustane are benefiting from each other, the first by enlarging its network towards Paris, the second by expanding its business and services. The Publishing

House and the conference room in the heart of the eighteenth borough have been born from this cooperation.

26 An example of traditional boubou is the Djellaba, Baye Lahad, Serin Shouhaibou: they vary in the make of the decorations and the material. The shoes are called after the French baboushes, which are pointed shoes open at the back.

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The Institut des Cultures de l‟Islam (Institute of Islamic Cultures) is also at the Goutte d‟Or, in Barbès. It hosts events such as talks, debates, screenings and festive gatherings focussing on Islam, migration and migrants from Muslim countries in France, and on Islam in the former‟s country of origin. The Institute has only recently attracted a wider public mainly thanks to its rich film-screening programme. Overall, the Goutte d‟Or is multicultural and thus appealing to different backgrounds and interests, be they of leisure, intellectual and even religious. The residents are predominantly of West and North African origin, yet new

French residents have started populating the borough too. The atmosphere here is overall diverse and friendly. Halal butchers, hijab shops and art galleries sit by each other, making of the Goutte d‟Or the second most mixed borough after S. Denis, where Indian minority groups also co-exist peacefully with other West African and French residents. In the Parisian jargon, the nouveaux bobos, the new bourgeoisie, lives in these areas. MM has spotted the chance to make its entry here, first through Al Bustane bookshop and secondly through the venues hosted at the Institute. Thus, a Mouride dhikr night has for the first time been part of the events of the Institute in May 2006. The majority of the visitors were Mourides, but also other people from the borough and a few others attracted by the novelty of the event. Food was offered in the court of the Institute and the chants were performed inside the circular room. The visitors hung around the Institute, laid out with very minimal furniture and carpets on the floor, during the chants, which lasted a couple of hours. The event unfolded with order. Some people knew each other as Mourides affiliated to Taverny or Aulnay or for being neighbours. The French people present at the venue were both people of the Goutte d‟Or and visitors, showing the (relative) success of the venue. It is worth noticing that these kinds of performances do not normally attract great numbers, since they are religious chants which have not become part of the market entertainment channels, as for example the

231 griotssingers have, nor do they wish to. MM‟s intention is to popularize the tariqa and eventually the dhikrs in the context of a wider Muslim network, not simply to make it a source of revenue or a leisure pastime for the general public. Thus, even though modest in terms of numbers, the event marked MM‟s presence in the borough, which, as mentioned above, is also a Senegalese stronghold of a kind. The sensitization of the Goutte d‟Or by the

Mouride tariqa is certainly not haphazard.

I took part in several film screenings at the Goutte d‟Or and at the Institute, yet what

deserves attention here is one particular event hosted at the Institute, welcoming the

emergent Moroccan filmmaker and director of “A l‟ombre des marabouts” (In the

marabout‟s shadow). The film depicted the backwardness of Senegal and particularly of

the Mourides through the life of the protagonist, a young talibé. It showed the phenomenon

headed in Senegal by Mor Kara Mbacké, a marabout of the renowned family, who is

attempting to enter into politics through the votes of his numerous talibés. Kara Mbacké

talks of his faithful as a squad, as CAB‟s troops who will take over power. The message

the film sent out, that is, that the Mouride order is involved with power in a sinister way,

left the audience with goose bumps. From the anthropological literature and the analyses

provided above, the fact that in Senegal the secular power and Sufi leaders stand by each

other is not a novelty, yet in the context of the event, where many were new to the

phenomenon, this came across in a shocking way. After the film, a debate ensued, during

which a member of the Islamic centre of Aulnay asked the film director if he thought that

the Mouridyya is indeed a Senegalese form of Islam. The assistant from Taverny

intervened on behalf of the film director, annoyed by the fact that the talibé spoke exactly

in the terms of the orientalist understandings of the movement, while for him it appeared

232 more than clear that Sufism, in any form, is always nothing other than Islam itself. The event was abruptly called off, since the film director was put in a difficult position and directly under verbal attack by the assistant from Taverny. The standoff between the talibé from Taverny and the one from Aulnay articulated the standpoints of these two Islamic centres, which normally come together during public and Mouride venues, yet disagree on the way they understand the role of the Mouridyya and how it should be presented outside the milieu of the tariqa.

To conclude this section about MM‟s projects carried out in Paris, I would like to focus now on the media resources and in particular on the Internet as a novel instrument used by

MM. The use of the Internet within the Muslim community and the changes it has brought in its way of practising Islam has recently come to the attention of anthropological analyses; in particular, to what “Gary Bunt has termed the „digital Ummah‟ or „Cyber

Islamic Environments‟” (CIEs)” (Akou, 2010, p. 332). Akou addresses the role of the internet as the technological vessel for the discussion of issues which the sacred texts do not express or for which they provide scant information. In her view, the utility of the

Internet is that of “continuing the conversation where the sources leave off” (p. 336), through ijtihad, interpretation, “a powerful idea that also plays a critical role in jurisprudence (fiqh)” (p. 332). Even though already present in Islam, ijtihad as used in virtual forums, chat rooms, blogs and so forth, is subverting the role of the scholars, the ulema, by empowering lay people in that they encourage the discussion of issues that are at the heart of their life as Muslims. In fact, everyone can easily access the Internet (the cost and literacy required to use it are minimal) from their homes, internet cafés and internet centres; information runs quickly and the user, or “surfer”, can choose whatever website

233 and discussion group suits them. Anyone can access the numerous websites at any time, as much as leave them. The degree of commitment and responsibility is thus relative and independent of the seriousness of the weblog chosen. Akou underlines the positive aspects of using the Internet, in that it allows people who rarely have a voice, such as Muslim women or the young people, to have a say, protected by the anonymity that the Internet affords. Of course, she wonders first whether this technological instrument will give way to substantial changes in the Muslim community‟s practices and secondly if these will endure over time. Keeping this reflection in mind, MM‟s use of the Internet has started recently, and towards the end of my fieldwork. MM‟s first priority was to create the structure of

CAB‟s Maison (Centre) at Taverny, before addressing its communication outwardly. I will present here two websites used by MM in order to evaluate the weight of the Internet as a strategy of diffusion within this community.

The Mouride community of Taverny refers principally to the website www.htcom.sn, which describes the historical traits of the Mouridyya and its Khalifs and the major events of the community in Senegal. The main body of this website is CAB‟s life and work, the most important commemorations for the community, such as the magal, the mouloud, the aϊds and the Laylatul Qadr, the night in which the Qur‟an was revealed to Prophet

Mohammed. The celebration of the birth of renowned Mouride Khalifs and women of the

Mbacké family are also posted in the homepage. The website discusses in depth CAB‟s descent and the history of the Mouridyya through the Mbacké family‟s most important representatives; it also dedicates a section to instruct the talibés on the supererogatory prayers, nafilas,of the month of Ramadan (during which the fasting is celebrated). The nafilas are reputed to confer immense benefits. They require further attention for they are

234 practised during the blessed month of Ramadan, and because they vary in number of rakas from the usual ritual prayer. The postings show an important response from the male talibés, interested in the genealogy of CAB‟s silsila-baraka and on the example of illustrious members of his family, for the talibés themselves aspire to become sidikh, guides. A section is also dedicated to the Hisbut Tarqiyyah and the origin of the movement.

Overall the website is seriously moderated and the information provided supported by scriptural sources. The postings of the individual talibés show a passionate interest in the doings and celebrations of the tariqa, so that their emails express their love for CAB and the Mouridyya, a passionate expression of loyalty not rare in these Sufi milieus. Here are two examples:

“I‟m a talibé of Serin Touba [CAB] and I would like to know if anyone can explain to me

why, every time I read CAB‟s qasidas, I cry from the joy and comfort that they give me.

This I really cannot explain” [My translation. All the postings are in French, more rarely

mixed with Wolof.].

“Khadim Rassoul [CAB] has chanted the praise of the Prophet (peace be upon him)

through his qasidas to establish the greatness of the divine order. These holy verses

translate all the grace that guides our hearts in the faith, the law and the path [of Islam].

We will never be able to refrain from shedding our tears, once we hear our cheick‟s work.

All of this reveals the virtue of the path, which has gone a long way. Thank you Serin

Touba and thank you Serin Saliou [the Khalif].”

Facebook is the internationally known blog for social networking. It has swarmed the web and the world due to its user-friendly configuration, the timely and surprising ways that

235 one can find people in the network through simple searches, and of acquiring new „friends‟ by adding them through one‟s own network. Anyone can subscribe to Facebook by providing an email address and a name (real or just a username). All the contacts have a simple profile image and info section, so that recently many have subscribed to exploit

Facebook‟s huge network to promote their B&B, hostel, gallery and so forth, by posting pictures, albums and video-clips. In the info section, one can also add why one has adhered to Facebook. Generally, people declare that it is to find friends, others to find a relationship, others just for amusement. Through this blog, subgroups can be created, such as college friends from the same university, fan clubs of TV popular personalities, pop stars and so forth, so that anyone can have his own group of friends (from the real world or known through Facebook) and others to which he/she intends to be part of. Now on

Facebook it is possible to find a wealth of “fans” of Mouride Khalifs; of CAB‟s mother,

Diarra Bousso; of Serin Saliou and so forth. Differently from the website described above, the Mouride network on Facebook, probably because it is much more accessible, attracts female and male alike, young talibés and not so young ones. The posts invite the talibés to inform and check up other Mouride websites, whose layout is not dissimilar from that found at www.htcom.sn. An example is the website www.al-himma.com, which nevertheless combines French and Wolof even in the opening pages, restricting in this way the audience of the website; or the website http://www.khassidaonline.com, where one finds CAB‟s qasidasonline.MM has opened its own page on Facebook too and it is called

Touba Taverny. It provides MM‟s address and a brief description of this Mouride Islamic centre. So far, the page has not been viewed by many people, apart from a few talibés who have expressed their liking in the section dedicated to commentaries.

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Thus, MM has only started the process of opening itself towards other Muslims in Paris, but it has done so by putting into place the initiatives described above and elsewhere online, via a few websites of diffusion. It will be possible to ascertain their success only over time, even though the steps MM has taken are in a direction that suggests its managerial independence from Senegal, from other Mouride Islamic centres such as that of

Aulnay and even from HT, from where it originated. MM could be the sign of an “Islam of

France”, advocated by the French intelligentsia as a symbol of integration. MM, in fact, takes advantage of what Paris offers, including the financial support of the Conseil Islamic de France (Muslim Council of France), against the fears of the so-called „argent dans la valise‟ (money in the suitcase). This refers to the money provided by unchecked donors or the Arab States, over which the French government would have no control (Laurence,

2006).

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Chapter 6

French provision of health for migrants: between mediation and misunderstanding.

I Transcultural psychiatry in France.

According to Collignon (2004), the aftermath of WWII meant a huge movement of people from the ex-colonies (due to the need for a labour force in the reconstruction of France, to care for and assist orphans, refugees and so forth), so that interest in mental health studies began by turning its attention towards comparative approaches, namely with respect to people from different social and cultural backgrounds. The World Federation for Mental

Health was created then by “J.R. Rees, the chief of the psychiatric services of the British army” (p. 80), followed by H.B.M. Murphy‟s comparative studies on the “dispersed people” (in particular refugees) that also revealed the impact of migration on the aetiology of psychopathologies. As Collignon states, the interest shifted to the evaluation of cultural difference in psychoanalysis as a focal element in psychotherapy. In 1957, the American

Association of Anthropology dedicated its annual meeting to the theme of “Culture and

Mental Health”, while the newly formed World Psychiatric Association organised a conference on the same theme (p. 82).

Comparative and transcultural psychiatry became the arena for the confrontation of analyses reading colonization and the colonised people in psychological (cf. Mannoni) and socio-political terms (cf. Fanon). Historical and political conjunctures and cultural representations became ways of addressing psychopathology. In France, scientific attention was brought to the study of the colonies, West and North African, as a way of solving the

“African problems” (p. 83). In Senegal, Collomb and his team‟s outstanding work at the 238

Fann Hospital of Dakar was part of such an atmosphere, so that “community therapy”, for example, became one of the ground breaking tools of this new transcultural epoch.

Anthropological work moved rather towards the understanding and description of local understandings of illness and suffering, so that “medical anthropology” has continued to shift towards “cognitive and semantic anthropology” (Littlewood, 1989, p. 5). In Senegal, the Ortigues and Zempleni, as much as Collomb and Lambo have attempted (the first two anthropologically and the second two clinically) to make sense of the culturally-framed meaning and expression of psychopathology, so that their supposed universality was challenged.

In France “ethnopsychiatry reached its apogee with the foundation of the Centre George

Devereux, annexed to the University of Paris VIII (1993)” (Sargent et al., 2009b, p. 101).

Devereux‟s school inaugurated a new way of doing psychiatry, by combining clinical practice, research and teaching. Tobie Nathan, his student, espoused his teacher‟s lesson in associating anthropology and psychiatry (p.102) as ethnopsychiatry. Nonetheless, recently in France, Nathan‟s theory and clinical practice have fallen under criticism from both anthropologists and clinicians, who accuse him of carrying out “folk therapy”. First in line, critiquing Nathan‟s ethnopsychiatry, is Didier Fassin, anthropologist and directeur de recherche at the Ecole d‟Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales in Paris. It is impossible not to consider the latter‟s extremely prolific work, when addressing medical anthropology in

Paris, in particular with regards to West African migrants‟ health care. Fassin attacks

Nathan for his reductionist view of the foreigner, or migrant, a view that assumed that he would not differ in any way from his culture of origin. In Nathan‟s perspective, to have a migrant in therapy in France would imply reproducing in the therapeutic setting the

239 migrant‟s milieu, for example, by introducing amulets (or other objects), and the group

(made up of a number of therapists and experts on the patient‟s culture). Both the use of objects and of the group were consistent, in Nathan‟s clinical practice and view, with the migrant‟s traditional environment.

Implicit in both Fassin‟s anthropological critique and in the clinical work carried out with migrants by the association Migrations et Santé and the F. Minkowska Centre is the refusal to think of the migrant‟s adaptation (after migration) as a one way-process. The patient‟s wellbeing is thus not achieved simply once the migrant has re-integrated himself into his own community (from which he has probably distanced himself, voluntarily or not). Fassin brings out clearly his attack on Nathan in his 1999 article, whose title (L’ethnopsychiatrie et ses réseaux: l’influence qui grandit) paraphrases that of Nathan‟s famous book

L’influence qui guérit (1994), where Nathan had expounded his theory of the influence of one‟s origin on the formation of one‟s psyche. Such datum, for Nathan, would be incontrovertible. Fassin, by referring to Foucault, shows how colonialism meant a “war of races, construed as a tension between a nostalgic ideal of sovereignty and a made up one of bio-politics” (p. 151, my translation from the French), in which again and again, the supremacy of one people is endorsed over another. In Fassin‟s analysis, which echoes that of British transcultural psychiatry (Littlewood et al., 1997), what is at stake in the migrants‟ health care, is precisely the affirmation of power (of the dominant group) over those excluded from it (the migrants and subdominant groups). This may occur in various guises, he says, from blatant racism to obtuse reductionism in therapy, making of one‟s culture one‟s exclusive fate, or rather one‟s “culture as a closed, undivided reality,

240 impossible to share, the reason why cultures have to be differentiated (…) by watertight frontiers” (p. 154, my emphasis) and thus to be dominated.

Moreover, Fassin (2009) argues that migration and health have long occupied a marginal space in the study of tropical diseases, a subcategory relegating the migrants, with their culture and/or diseases, to a minor field of interest. „Culturalism‟, another concept at the heart of current criticism and research in France, marked the migrants as people exhibiting certain cultural and biological characteristics, which were “other” or “different” from those borne by the larger community. Fassin cites paludisme (malaria), saturnism (lead poisoning) and so forth, as examples of the migrants‟ illnesses, to which health care services responded with tailored programmes of prevention and information. Littlewood and Lipsedge (1997) question whether specific migrant illnesses exist, or put differently, whether there might be a „migrant psychopathology‟, due to the difficulty engendered by the accommodation process. In this sense, clinical and anthropological work, together with that of organizations in the field, shows that the answer is mixed, in that illness is a complex experience entailing both the societal (of the sending and receiving countries) and the individual meaning-making, beyond the specificity of the physical disease. In Europe and France in particular, health care for minority groups has over time been associated with social rights and, more specifically, with the right of receiving health care, regardless of one‟s status (legal or illegal migrant). Fassin astutely remarks that in France there has been another shift: from the successful fight to obtain human rights such as health care for all to the demand for social rights. Thus, migrants may now claim residency rights, if they can prove that they can only receive treatment in France. In this way, social, political and anthropological debates have gone closer to the universalism of the droit commun, in the

241 opposite direction of the initial fights, advocating the recognition of difference (migrants‟ rights and cultural difference). This standpoint, as Wieviorka has shown (1998), can nevertheless lead to racist and discriminatory policies, which view everyone as equal vis-à- vis the law (the „egalitarian‟ form of racism advocated by right wing supporters), bypassing the differences in social status and conditions existing between the weakest strata of society and the middle class.

The concept of métissage is also in use in clinical practice in Paris and used as an anthropological orientation to understanding people whose background is mixed (in terms of origin and culture). The psychiatrist Marie Rose Moro is a well known name on the ethnopsychiatric scene and the one who has introduced this term in her practice with the second (by now even third) generation of children born to migrant parents or to parents of migrant descent. She was Nathan‟s student and the one who has incorporated part of her former mentor‟s lesson into her practice, while also distancing herself from some of its aspects (she does not use ritual objects during psychotherapy, for example). According to her, ethnographies of illness are essentially a methodological tool in transcultural psychiatry (Moro et al., 2006). Métissage is the element affirming the universality of the psyche, while maintaining cultural difference in its dynamism within the context and power relationships those children inhabit (Moro, 2002). This approach does not imprison the psyche in the determinism of one‟s background, but rather widens it towards the possibility of different choices, and thereby towards an act of consciousness.

Thus, there are now two main theoretical standpoints in French clinical theory: the first is acculturation, conceived of as a changing process in which the migrant is involved in the

242 host community; the second is that of métissage, as the way of approaching the migrant population with an open gaze, which does not reduce the individual to his own background, but uses it instead as a valid tool of interpretation enabling an understanding of the ways in which pain and suffering are modulated socially, culturally and religiously. Hence, the scenario is one which counters the universalism of the psyche with the universality of health care rights. In this context, what only emerges as difference is the patient‟s cultural background and social condition (Kareem et al, 2000). I intend to bring my reflection on why this occurs precisely in therapy and what it engenders as a consequence.

II The residents at Foyer 93: malaise and anger.

At Foyer 93, for those who have a job in Paris or at the café, in the workshops or at market stands inside the foyer, time unfolds according to their working schedule. For them, work is not simply vital because it provides the means to support themselves and their family in

Kayes, but also because their life quality is slightly better, as they can either spend more time away from Foyer 93 or be busy. Those who do not have a job spend most of their time idly, hanging about in the court and at the café, or going out in the neighbourhood, while hoping for something to „unblock‟ and be resolved, so that they can eventually obtain a permit, or find a job. Similar to these latter people, generally in their thirties and forties, are the elders who have retired and who spend their hours in the court, chatting away or simply sitting in chairs next to one another looking around passively. Basing my analysis at Foyer

93, I have shared a lot of time with these people, who mainly have no job and are often illegal. Younger residents get by working in scaffolding and at conveyer belts in factories and in other menial jobs in restaurants, even when they are illegal. The employer takes advantage of their status by paying them less and saving on social benefits (personal data).

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The elders also spend a great deal of time in their rooms, sharing the space with other residents their age. The fact that other family members are not there means that these have either found accommodation in Paris or have finally returned home. In both cases, they have no family link at Foyer 93 nor have they been able to guarantee the arrival of younger male family members in France. Their isolation within the foyer and from the family, not least from their women in Kayes, weakens them vis-à-vis the other residents, younger and/or better connected. They receive little mercy and consideration: their opinion does not count much in the general managing of Foyer 93, nor do their needs or complaints weigh much

(e.g. against the noise coming from neighbouring rooms, against the délégués‟work and so on). Instead, they are tagged non-euphemistically as those ranting, or uselessly moaning.

They drag themselves from their rooms to the court, at times indulge a little in the canteen, while the café is off limits, since it is too undignified a place for them. Notwithstanding that the café-bar does not serve alcohol, the elders think that good Muslims should not attend bars. As a consequence, the café is only crowded with young and middle-aged residents. In the rooms they lie down and relax, pray even beyond the set times of the ritual prayers and those who have a TV watch it. Hours go by that way. Elders do not venture outside Foyer 93 much, as the court provides them with the impression of being outside anyway. Simaga, the iron maker, told me that back home, people who stay all the time in particular corners are dangerous, because they can cast “bad influences” on you (sort jetté), but he also added that this is not the case with the elders at Foyer 93, because they are innocuous. This can be construed as being powerless. The elders at Foyer 93 are conceived as not having the power to harm anyone; in fact, nobody fears them in this regard. The elders‟ isolation and reclusion at Foyer 93 has diminished the importance of their status, otherwise respected within the

Malian (and West African) society, where the elders are at the head of rural family-run

244 productive units (the ka, as seen), and occupy leadership roles in the governmental apparatus. Foyer 93 suggests that a move towards more recognition is being given to the youth than to elders. They both, as migrants, contribute to the wealth of their community, so that mercantile values have not taken precedence over family-centred ones, yet the status of the elderly is now fragmented and impoverished, as the family and the community milieu which sustains it is no longer there.

The elders‟ lack of mobility, which is similar to all of the residents‟ inasmuch as most find

it impossible either to move out of Foyer 93 or to return to their home town, is reflected in

their fixed gaze, and lack of conversation, other than in random bitter criticism directed

towards somebody they feel to be their fierce rivals at particular moments in time (be that

the délégué “who talks for nothing”, or the “noisy youth” and “the French”). In their time,

the older generation had thought that their spouses should remain back home, that France

would spoil the latters‟ good behaviour, that is, the traditional one, whereby the wife is

respectful of and subdued by the husband and elders. Furthermore, bringing family to

France, as we have seen, would imply having to leave the foyer and thus having to have

enough to support them financially. By choice or circumstance, they have been deprived of

the possibility of having a family and a role in it, of protecting their spouses and children.

Thus, they have precluded themselves from being with them and sharing a life together.

Over the years and through their repeatedly postponed return, these men have had a

surrogate role as heads of the family, and often one very limited to the possibility of

sending money. They have transformed Foyer 93 into their home, while their way of

maintaining their power over the family was precisely by keeping the family split between

France and Kayes. Muslim women in France are the object of a political discourse (not

245 least the recently issued law banning the hijab in public), which encourages them to directly or indirectly attack their men‟s authority and, more generally, Islam.

In this way, secularism (laϊcité) is also opposed to Islam on the grounds of feminist arguments, as the only way left for Muslim women to free themselves. The elders of Foyer

93 have responded to the state‟s interventionism and control by keeping at bay any of its interference: the state can do little to their women when they are not in France, nor to themselves if they keep together as a community at Foyer 93. Even though to some extent this strategy has proved satisfactory (Foyer 93 has yet to be demolished, the community is still there and their women and children are still “protected” by the family in Kayes and their financial input from France) this has not happened without a heavy cost. The elders, as much as the other residents who are opting for Foyer 93 as their housing solution, are increasingly isolated, frustrated and angry. The situation of certain men in their forties, who are out of work and often still without a residency permit, is no less difficult than that of the elders. Their frustration is due to the fact of not even being able to sustain their family when they do not work. One day, I found one resident in tears, because he was unable to send what was due for his son‟s school fees and clothes. His frustration was translated into an attack he directed at France and its migration policy, and at the fact that the residents can only talk to representatives of associations. Mediation between the residents and government representatives, as well as between the former and medical professionals, appears to be of the utmost urgency. The malaise of the residents cannot simply be dealt with when disorder (social or mental) surfaces. The residents trust and greatly appreciate the work of the associations because through them they have a voice; they can discuss their problems and often find alternatives. It appears that mediation can be

246 the only possible way forward to understand first generation migrants and their concerns.

Through mediators between the residents and far-reaching state political decisions, the residents feel more confident to express their problems in order to indicate the way. Often, assimilation policies lack insight and efficacy because they are detached from the reality, which only the recipients experience. The work of associations run by migrants in France or of community-based medical care (e.g. in Senegal) has proved successful precisely because the community involved is at the centre of their action. Pluralismmay deny assimilation and unity according to the French understanding, though mediation can only but foster such processes, precisely because the common good, in the Rousseauian sense, would be shared and harmonised. Only Muslim activist groups in France have started, beyond a universalist discourse, one which promotes the “common good”. Baraka, in the context of Foyer 93 is a matter of chances, lost or gained, and of advice sought from the marabout. Because women and children are more susceptible to influence by institutions, the elders have decided, as heads of their homes, to „protect‟ them by leaving them behind, in Kayes, where the African milieu can guarantee their traditional role as women, which is one of dedication to the family, husband and children. The younger residents, wishing to have a partner at their side, uphold a more innovative discourse. They hope to be able to reunite with them in France, once they have been able to settle down in Paris. This process, though, has become increasingly more difficult. In practice, both the elders and the young residents share a life as single men, deprived of their female counterparts, cloistered among themselves and broadly relying on their own resources. Thus, the attitude in the foyer is to be suspicious of outside „therapy‟ claiming to help and adapt to French conditions. In the following section, I will look at the Minkowska Centre as the main one available in Paris for migrants.

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III The Françoise Minkowska Centre.

The Centre Françoise Minkowska is run by the Association Françoise et Eugène

Minkowski. It was founded about forty years ago and has “a file of about two thousand

patients (of which 10 per cent are children), corresponding to twelve thousand medical

(and non medical) sessions per year (Bennegadi et al., 2009, p. 23). The Centre falls under

the Agence Régionale de l‟Hospitalisation d‟ Île-de-France, which means that the institute

is under the control of the regional council as to preventive programmes and the promotion

of mental health. Thus, the institute recruits its patients from the whole Île-de-France. The

centre has a partnership with Centre Hospitalier Sainte-Anne and with the association Élan

Retrouvé, also under the regional council. The status of the Minkowska Centre (henceforth

MC) is that of Établissement de Santé Privé d‟Intérêt Collectif (Institute of Private Health

Care for the Public Interest), governed like French public hospitals as regards the

certification and endorsement of its activities. The Centre is financed by the Assurance

Maladie27 and cooperates with other public health institutions in “delivering its services”

(ibid).

The Centre National de l‟Informatique et des Libertés (National Centre of Information

Technology and Liberties) implements theJanuary 6, 1978 Act, according to which the

recording of personal data and files should respect “human identity, human rights, privacy

and liberties” (CNIL28). Notwithstanding the recent amendments to the law, in France there

is no formal way of documenting ethnic and religious diversity, since to do this would be

regarded as an affront to one‟s freedom and privacy. MC follows, as any other institution

27 Assurance Maladie is the French national savings system administering the funds for the sectors of public health and accidents at work. 28 http://www.cnil.fr/english/the-cnil 248

in France, this national requirement. At MC any ethnic indication is absent and, I would

add, so is any measurement, especially with respect to the minority groups attending MC:

it is impossible to ascertain their number and general epidemiology, which I found

astonishing. The CNIL and INSEE29 can carry out statistics at a national level, when they

are motivated by state reasons, such as recording the census of the population. Otherwise,

at institutions such as MC, only individual files exist, which record the patients‟ details,

history and diagnosis over time. My anthropological work at MC aimed at coming to grips

with this. I therefore asked to be allowed access to the existing files, particularly those

regarding migrants of West African origin and, where possible, of those living in the

foyers.

MC is proud to declare that it is the first medical institute to have inaugurated in France,

both in theory and in clinical practice, clinical medical anthropology. This entails meeting

the migrants‟ demands in the clinical practice on one hand, and on the other, training the

personnel in transcultural psychiatry by involving them in the ongoing research endeavour

of the centre. A multidisciplinary team is in place to this effect, made up of medical

personnel, including psychiatrists, and social workers. MC focuses on the notions of

emic/etic, disease/illness as they were developed by L. Eisenberg and of the explanatory

model as elaborated by Kleinman, mixed with particular emphasis on the acculturation

process of the migrant patient. For Bennegadi, the senior psychiatrist and an anthropologist

at MC, in no way does the centre conceive of acculturation as morbidity, but rather as “an

interaction between the individual and his environment, which mobilises his mental energy

at various levels, from the personal quest for identity, to coping strategies or resilience and

29INSEE: Institut National de la Statistique et des Études Économiques. 249 finally to psychopathology” (Bennegadi et al, 2009, p. 13). Bennegadi sees two important obstacles to such an approach, which the team has to confront daily in its practice: the first is language, the second generated by the difference in cultural representations between care-giver/patient, who might not share the “implicit codes of the discourse about mental illness” (p. 15). Thus, language, discourse and acculturation are the three focal elements of the medical anthropological clinical practice at MC. MC has recently adopted a working concept of cultural competence, in accordance with other transcultural and international psychiatric milieus in the United States and the United Kingdom. For this, Dr. Bennegadi has established a liaison with McGill University, in Montreal, on behalf of MC. Medical students and researchers from Montreal visit MC and bring their insights to the debates that take place weekly at the centre.

Since 2006 MC has initiated the process of accreditation, certification of the centre along the lines of the établissement de santé, medical institutes of France (and obtained in 2007).

This implied for MC a constant effort of improvement and standardization of its clinical practice. MC has thus formulated its agenda in order to respond adequately and qualitatively to this endeavour, according to the following points: 1) to acknowledge the patient‟s centrality by putting to use the expertise of all the members of the team; 2) to create an “ethic of relationship” with the patient‟s family (Ass. Françoise et É. Minkowski

2009, p. 5), enabling both to cooperate harmoniously with the medical team; 3) to put into practice the achievements of medical, social and psychological experts; 4) to enact a constant evaluation of the clinical practice and 5) training of the team to respond to the demands of the certification process, and 6) to capitalize all the profitable insights, through documentation and information. To satisfy these points for the clinical practice offered to

250 migrant patients from the Île-de-France region, MC has instituted four poles: 1) clinic, 2) research, 3) training and 4) documentation, for the information and implementation of

MC‟s archive (both as paper and digital material).

The most relevant data regarding the migrant patient population in Paris are perhaps those that can be elicited from the work of the clinical pole at MC. It appears that patients are referred to MC by: social workers (18%), public institutes of health in the Île-de-France region (14%), GPs (11%), associations (10%), state schools (6%) and by judicial referrals

(2%) (p. 9-10). Patients are predominantly from Paris (40%) and Seine Saint Denis (16%).

Interestingly, by comparing the same set of data with MC‟s 2006 newsletter, it appears that the percentage has diminished for all of these items and that the judicial referral to the centre no longer appears. This may be due to the introduction of MEDIACOR, an assessment group analysing the reception of patients, enabling MC to receive them and to respond optimally to their demands. Moreover, the work carried out at MC has become more visible and known in the region. In the past years “any patient whose language was not French or who was a refugee or migrant was immediately sent to MC. Luckily it is no longer so” (Bourdin, social worker at MC, personal data).

MC is attempting to compare its epidemiological data with those of the wider population in the Île-de-France region, making sure that “a structural link between migration and psychopathology is not drawn” (p. 11). The table of the psychopathologies presented by the clinical unit is the following: mood disorders (34%), neuroses (28%), non-specified

(16%) and schizophrenia (8%) (p. 10). According to Bennegadi, these diagnoses testify to the fact that an “ontological implication between migration and illness is not demonstrated,

251 but rather, that mood disorders only appear amongst difficult migratory trajectories or devastating experiences of exile” (Ass. Françoise et É. Minkowski, 2006, p. 11).

Considering that no epidemiology is possible without data addressing pathologies in relation to ethnic groups, it appears that French transcultural psychiatry is no position to achieve it. In this sense, the question that British and American transcultural psychiatry has addressed since the 1980s, that is, whether or not there are specific pathologies associated with specific migrant groups (because of social, dietary and cultural behaviours), will remain unanswered.

The clinical unit works in its everyday practice by applying Kleinman‟s concepts of illness, disease and sickness (1980), which are central in transcultural psychiatry. In fact, they assume that both physical and psychic suffering are expressed according to cultural metaphors, as a form of cultural dressing (habillage, in French) specific to culture. Thus, illness corresponds to the explanatory models voiced by the patients in therapy (be it an attack of the jinn, the casting of the evil eye and so forth). As Bennegadi puts it, sometimes the psychiatrist/patient encounter can be marked by misunderstandings, since in intercultural situations like these, one‟s implicit cultural assumptions also have to be contextualised. The endeavour is not simple or always satisfactory, rather, it is susceptible to the bringing out of the therapist‟s own agenda, or his misconception about the patient‟s view (about his own suffering), and can evoke condescension (if not racism) about the latter‟s origin, poor knowledge of French and so forth. The diagnosis (disease) would distinguish the “pseudo-universal suffering” from its cultural formulation. Finally, sickness is regarded as the social understanding of the medical behaviour, “structuring the experience of illness” (Bennegadi, op. cit., p. 23). The role of the social worker at MC is to

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respond to “sickness”, as an element of the “illness”. He addresses the social factors of the

contexts in which the patient‟s illness occurs, so that their negative aspects can potentially

be solved or alleviated. The social worker also helps the user of the centre by orientating

and informing him of the paperwork necessary to obtain medical and/or financial

assistance, or even of how to legalise his status; he or she may also clarify how the family

(nuclear as opposed to polygamic) and the education of children are conceived of in

France, for example. Social workers are one of the key features of the centre, in that, they

address not just one of the three aspects of the patient‟s suffering (sickness), according to

the model suggested above. At MC, illness, with its cultural element to be decoded, is

addressed by both psychologists and medical anthropologists (it was in this role that I got

access to MC). For this reason, the documentation unit, with its website and library30, and

the research team are invaluable to training and educating personnel on issues involving

transcultural psychiatry. This entails integrating culture in psychiatry, hence applying the

insights of medical anthropology in therapy.

MC‟s emphasis on its adherence to the droit commun, in the care of its migrant patients, is

exemplified by the fact that it welcomes anyone, regardless of their social status and

condition, who can be treated at MC. MC‟s 2006 Rapport d‟Activité (bulletin) shows, in

fact, that a great number of referrals came from public institutes of health, a sign, according

to Benengadi, that medical treatment for both citizens and non-citizens is in place and that

the universal right to receive health care is endorsed. The clinical unit has also put in place

an art workshop, which allows children and adults alike to express their feelings, both

when these are difficult to bring out or when language may be a barrier. Patients are asked

30 The website of MC, together with its online database is maintained by trainees, who carry out excellent work for the centre, while in the meantime helping MC save a lot of time and costs. 253 whether they require interpreters during the therapeutic sessions, so that translators can be present during the consultation. Two psychiatrists at MC speak respectively Wolof and

Arabic as native languages, so they can use this extra skill in therapy (the interpreter is not required in this case). Generally, therapy is carried out through classic consultations (90.4

%), telephonic ones (3.9%), cultural mediation (1%), meetings (0.7%) and counselling

(0.2%). French, Algerian, Portuguese, Turkish and Moroccan patients are the majority of

MC‟s users (p. 14).

The training and research units have been designed to transfer the necessary skills

(theoretical and practical) to professionals working in the medical, social and psychiatric contexts, and to researchers whose ethnographic or anthropological analyses address issues of (mental) health in the context of culture, of health seeking-behaviour (within migrant and non-migrant communities) and broadly themes involving medical anthropology (e.g. conceptions of health with regards to religion, kinship and so forth). To do so, MC contributes to the degree course “Santé, maladie, soins et cultures” (Health, illness, health care and cultures) at the University R. Descartes-Paris V, together with the George

Pompidou European Hospital and the Tarnier Hospital. The same course is offered at the

Pierre et Marie Curie University in cooperation with Charles Foix Hospital. This is also the reason why, according to Bennegadi, MC is so popular amongst research students and trainees who attend the course (8,054 training hours for 34 trainees and 12 external researchers with authorization - which included myself – at MC). MC organizes seminars and debates at the George Pompidou Hospital and at the Maison de Science de l‟Homme, with the theme “diversity, psyches and mental health” (my translation from the French) and presentions at public debates in Paris on these themes and at MC for social workers,

254 nurses, and psychoanalysts. MC carries out the supervision of trainees‟ theses and allows for their presentation during the weekly workshops held at MC, when transcultural issues are presented to the whole team. On Mondays, MC also organises visual events on issues of interest to MC, so that a debate is conducted after the film screening.

Beyond these activities, the real novelty recently introduced by MC is MEDIACOR, an observation team helping all of the teams at MC to meet and to discuss the ways in which

MC should receive its patients and how reception could be improved. Decisions are taken on a vote basis. Among the recipients of MEDICOR are the receptionists, so that MC can maximize the users‟ demands. It is vital for MC that the waiting list is the shortest possible and that the users attending MC are those who can actually be treated. When MC started out, any migrant in search of official papers, any refugee and orphan was referred to MC by the police, state hospitals and schools. In that way, the time that MC and its receptionists took to analyse these cases and direct them to the appropriate institution in

Paris or in the Île-de-France region cost a lot of effort to the centre, which could instead have been channelled towards its patients. MEDIACOR meetings are held weekly. This is an ad hoc space, created to discuss the files of the people asking for assistance, their demands and social condition. MEDIACOR has become the threshold for distinguishing and defining the potential from the actual users. During MEDIACOR meetings decisions are made on whether individual cases can be taken on by MC or rather directed to the Red

Cross, other social workers and so on. This way, MEDIACOR provides the space for MC‟s own internal analysis. The meetings are a moment of encounter and training for the whole team of MC, where everyone is invited to contribute and give their opinion. These meetings are organised during weekdays, when most of MC‟s workers are there, including

255 psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers and trainees. Thus, attendance is generally very high, which also shows the success and importance of this new body within MC.

It happened that Bennegadi, with the help of the head of the social workers‟ team, Mme

Bourdin, found that the way in which the patients‟ files had been written did not correspond to the founding principles of the centre (e.g. they were deemed to be “ethnically biased” or lacking important information about the patient). When this occurred, extra meetings were organised by Mme Bourdin to train the receptionists on the weakest points of their performance. This way, an ongoing training of the personnel, encompassing all of the people working at MC, is in place. I found that MEDIACOR and the research workshops really marked the difference between MC and other clinical or academic institutions, whose domains pursue in parallel what MC attempts to bring together in its

“medical anthropology clinic”, the motto and new perspective on which MC prides itself.

Some of the most relevant case studies discussed at MEDIACOR when I was there are worth mentioning here. The first is Armelle, a French woman born to parents of Algerian origin. She is twenty-five. She turned to MC to receive counselling after her abortion. Dr

Bennegadi asked the psychologist who had her in therapy to discuss the case, as an illustrative example for the other trainees. The psychologist provided details of the case as it had developed over the previous months. Armelle wanted the psychologist to call her

“Amelie”, her preferred name and a typical French one, as opposed to Armelle, chosen by her father and more common in her father‟s entourage. She had recently renewed her birth certificate registering with the name Amelie. It appeared that Amelie‟s father had a particular attachment to her, which he showed through compliments about her beauty,

256 grace and so on, probably due to the fact that she was his first wife‟s (much loved and now deceased) daughter. Amelie attended university and clearly attempted to detach herself from the traditional education her family thought best for her. Her suffering and questioning came together only after her abortion. Amelie‟s guilt articulated the tensions between her abortion and her identity, the latter torn between the Algerian model offered by her family (which she had obviously already betrayed) and the French one, at which she aimed instead. For Amelie, attending MC also meant a rupture from those of her milieu, from whom she did not ask for help. According to the therapist, Amelie‟s case was emblematic of the difficulties of adhering to a different cultural model (which in French were expressed as “her attempts at becoming French”) and the sheer guilt generated by both her abortion and fake identity. In general terms, Amelie represents the difficulties of women who are more receptive to the programmed mission of the centre (i.e. women wishing to become French and/or who are threatened by violence/subjugation in their families, which originates from male Muslim figures).

The psychologist expressed the patient‟s „transference‟ in Amelie‟s need to obtain the therapist‟s approval of her strategies to separate from her family and to behave like a

French woman. Of course, the therapist never encouraged one over the other. MEDIACOR discussed at length the implications of the clinical concept of resilience with which

Amelie‟s case could best be summed up and analysed. The discussion that followed allowed everybody to provide their insights and comments. The trainees were encouraged to contribute when Bennegadi asked them individually what they had made of the presentation. Among them were students in psychology and psychiatry. I was the only medical anthropologist, who on one occasion considered Samba‟s case (see below), with

257 regards to his being Mouride, that is, whether this cultural aspects of his identity could be further construed in therapy and how. The point was left open, since as I will show, Samba had recently started therapy with Dr Sarr only to disappear soon after.

A second case submitted to the attention of MEDIACOR was that of a mother, a refugee from Sierra Leone, looking for her daughter. The case was quickly archived since it was deemed most appropriate for the Croix-Rouge Française (French Red Cross),to which it would be addressed. Both the social worker Mme Bourdin and the receptionists would have carried out the networking part of the job. The Croix-Rouge steers part of its activities towards the social sector. The recipients of these actions are refugees, asylum seekers, minors arriving at the Charles de Gaulle airport alone and migrants who enter France illegally. There are zones d’attentes (waiting or detention areas) of the Croix-Rouge at the main international railways and airports. Their presence is motivated by the need to audit the influx of newcomers, so as to orient them and possibly offer them humanitarian, administrative and social aid to assist their integration or else their repatriation.

Another case was that of a girl, sixteen years of age and from Nigeria. Her mother had

“given” her to an older aunt, because she could not provide for her; thus she left her native village for the one where her old aunt lived. The old woman soon died, thus the girl was sent again elsewhere, this time to another family member in Lagos (biographical details were scant and inaccurate). At that point, the person who should have taken care of her abandoned her, leaving the young girl to face life in the big city by herself. At this point another figure appears, which is that of an unknown man (probably a suitor), who promises her a better life in France. Everything is organised for her journey to Paris, where she is

258 supposed to meet somebody on her arrival at the airport. However, the girl finds no one when she arrives and the phone number that she had been given was not working. The police found the girl, who had been wandering around the airport for hours, and directed her to the centre d’accueil (reception centre) for youth. Her case was then submitted for the attention of social workers and eventually to MC. After a round of considerations,

MEDIACOR decided that the girl, who had already faced several abandonments and who nevertheless had shown a great deal of courage and determination (in Lagos and by getting to Paris by herself), had to be considered urgently, after further assessment. The social worker would be contacted to that effect.

The last case is one that caused a lot of embarrassment and friction between the receptionists and the general team of MC. The file, which had been filled in by one of the receptionists and which was brought to the attention of MEDIACOR, addressed the case of a female patient, accompanied “by an Arab friend”, the file stated. Dr Bennegadi, who read the file, got very upset by the “ethnic” colouring of the remark, which, in his view, had no direct link with the filing requirements; it did not bring any further information and what was worse, added ethnic bias on the reading and reception of such a file. The receptionist in question, young and new to the job, who probably did not mean to discriminate against the patient by bringing racial considerations into the case, was put into the firing line. After the episode, the receptionists backed up their colleague, all feeling under unjust attack. Dr

Bennegadi, for whom any mention of ethnicity is taboo, organised a training session for them, in order to make clear MC‟s requirements and line of conduct, so that “a file like that would never be written again”. It is to be noted that the receptionist, probably clumsily, only intended to provide context to the case she was filing. Dr Bennegadi and Mme

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Bourdin stressed the importance of an impartial, non-ethnic approach towards their clientele, especially given that the latter are often of cultural and social backgrounds different from those of the people working at MC. MEDIACOR provides indeed a moment of analysis. In fact, it was created to improve the clinical performance of MC to benefit its users, but also to evaluate the staff‟ performance, from whom those benefits should be drawn. Bennegadi himself treated the patient in question and obviously the episode had no repercussions on the normal course of her therapy.

Research groups are also organised at MC, in the spirit of MEDIACOR-type interdisciplinary meetings, bringing together psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers and trainees. At the presentation of my own research topic and fieldwork in Paris, for example, all of the staff were present. I presented in French with the possibility of switching into English, which all the members of staff are required to be familiar with.

Bennegadi is very strict on this aspect, since language is one of the tools used at MC and because research cannot avoid coming into contact with English experts and written material, especially now that MC has established its link with McGill University and that researchers from there visit MC frequently. On this occasion, the Senegalese psychiatrist contributed, interested in the part of my research regarding the Mouride community. He gave me his insights about this community, which he knows from back in Senegal. Most importantly, he put me in contact with a Mouride patient he had in therapy (see below). Dr

Bennegadi too made his remarks, disagreeing with the possibility of questioning existing psychiatric practice by integrating traditional ones into it, as was outlined in my research premise, most probably because of his critique of Nathan‟s model. French psychiatry is

260 conceived to be the second (and only) chance of which migrant patients can avail themselves when they have become ill.

From the psychopathologies outlined above, including the aforementioned 16% of non- specified illnesses, and because the great majority of MC‟s users are French and of

Northern Africa origin, it is possible to conclude that a good deal of other users still resort to the therapies with which they are most familiar, especially if their social condition is marginal and/or at risk. A number of mental disorders amongst MC‟s patients is concomitant with or caused by social factors (sickness). Post-traumatic reactions occur amongst refugee women and young girls who have escaped from and survived war and rape.

What emerges is that MC, with its team and new units, such as MEDIACOR, is devising new strategies to address the migrant users of the centre in order to work more smoothly for them. To this effect, it is perfecting the ways in which they are referred to it, which avoids time-consuming wrong referrals and drop-outs. The users attending MC appear to be mainly young women, while children and adolescents are directed to the Croix-Rouge or to child psychiatric centres such as the one set up by Marie Rose Moro, the Maison des

Adolescents, Cochin Hospital, Paris. While pursuing transcultural psychiatry and drawing on the American school of Kleinmann, MC is also integrating social workers and medical anthropologists into the endeavours of the centre. Nonetheless, it also emerges that first- generation male migrants are not regular users. The proportions of patients from the foyers is so small that it is possible to question whether first-generation migrants are targeted as potential users at all. MC is avoiding ethnic and religious bias, maintaining cultural

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assimilation as a valued element in the transforming process that migration and integration

would imply. Traditional healing is thus not retained as an alternative, very much in line

with the current French critique of such an approach.

i. Samba, a Mouride and a user of the Minkowska Centre.

In this section, I will address the case study of Samba, one of MC‟s users for a limited

period. Samba is from Dakar, Senegal, forty-two, also a Mouride whom Dr Sarr, a

psychiatrist also from Senegal, had in therapy. Samba‟s clinical record reported him to be

in a state of confusion and anxiety, experiencing social marginality and achieving little

progress over the few months of his therapy. Samba had had a car accident in Paris, after

which he could no longer cope with the normal course of life. When I met him, he did no

work, apart from running a little jewellery workshop that provided him with the little

revenue on which he lived. His social life was not so limited however. He made his outings

to visit a friend at Foyer 93, generally on Fridays, for the ritual prayer, and to go to the

Mouride Centre of Aulnay, Île-de-France region. He had friends living in his

neighbourhood, who paid him visits, as well as he did them, and he taught the Qur‟an to

the children of his milieu. When we met, he was on medication. Samba shared a very

modest flat with another Senegalese in the north of Paris. He had been referred to MC by

the Mental Health Centre in Seine-Saint Denis, the affluent suburban area outside Paris. He

had his carte vitale31, which allowed him to have a GP first and then, through Dr Sarr‟s

prescriptions, to have his medications for free. He did not attend MC for long, and soon

stopped going altogether. His file says that any scenario might have occurred: he might

have returned to Senegal for good or have been repatriated, have lost his house and so

31 The carte vitale is a card which allows those who are entitled to benefit from health schemes. Generally, anyone who has been in France for at least three month, and can provide an address, can obtain it. 262 forth. I had his home and mobile numbers, yet after a couple of months during which we had met almost regularly, he stopped answering my calls. I lost track of him eventually, like MC. My account of Samba‟s suffering is thus limited to the short time we spent together.

I met Samba at his place and at a café next to Foyer 93, since it was convenient for both of us: I was close to my respondents at Foyer 93, while the latter was on the way to his workshop. At the beginning, Samba would not talk of his illness, apart from admitting that the car accident had dramatically changed his life. It was when we started seeing each other more frequently that he elaborated on his suffering. It become clear that his affliction had to do with his dissatisfying life in Paris, the lack of a family and the impossibility of feeling an attachment to the people in France as much as he had back home, due to the overwhelming anxiety which such disorientation caused. Marriage is socially endorsed in

Senegal, so that a man (or a woman) of his age would normally be married (or divorced) and have children. Diale‟s analysis of marriage in Senegal (2008) shows how it marks the entry in society and independence from the families of birth, which lose their control over the couple. For many, marrying and then divorcing has become a strategy of social advance, especially in the urban context of Dakar. For women, divorcing is a way of subverting their supposed passive status, through which they are responsible for their husband‟s sexual satisfaction and for their children‟ education. The husband, on the other hand, can divorce his wife, when he can prove she has not fulfilled her role. In the end, for both, divorce is a way of reaffirming one‟s perceived role and sexuality. Collignon (2008), reviewing her work, underlines how at the Dakar Fann Hospital, Prof Babakar Diop used a

Lacanian reading of the family dynamics in his clinical work, where different metaphors

263 and symbols represented the cultural traits of the Wolof traditional society. In the Wolof context, the man, or rather the husband, would represent the law, the authority (geno baye) and eventually the one who could pass on the baraka to his children, while the “mother‟s good work” only brings good fortune to her children. Samba‟s engrained regret at not having a wife is probably related to the stigma that his status as single entails in his milieu,

Muslim and conservative, where sexual satisfaction is only endorsed within marriage.

Thus, never having had a wife would be equivalent to being emasculated, not having a leadership role (over the wife and in the family) and not being able to obtain and pass on one‟s baraka to children. In a way, Samba compensated for the latter by teaching children the Qur‟an and CAB‟s qasidas. He said that this was important, so that the new generation of Muslims in France would not lose contact with their tradition (Muslim and Mouride).

Samba received the children in his house, where people he knew entrusted them to him for a few hours. He gave accounts of his lessons with passion and serenity, which he did not show when speaking of other moments of his day, which all come across as a source of anxiety for him. Not only did teaching the children take place at Samba‟s house, thus in a familiar environment to him, but also, as a teacher, his skills were employed in one of the most heartfelt values within the Mouride community: the education of the new generation, after CAB‟s lesson of tarbiyya (as seen above). Samba taught them the rudiments of

Arabic writing and reading, a few of CAB‟s qasidas and the most important prayers of the

Qur‟an, such as the Al-Fatiha, the opening prayer (of the Qur‟an and of the ritual prayer) and also one which is deemed to protect from evil influences. He talked a lot of the importance of doing things for others and of doing good, as a way of gaining baraka. In

Islam, as seen, it is conceived of as the sacred gift Allah concedes to His “friends”, the holy

264 men (wali), but also as a quid, which people in their everyday life can obtain by praying sincerely, or by being at the service of the community and, generally, by doing things that can benefit others. Baraka can be obtained by carrying out the five pillars of Islam, through visits to CAB‟s tomb (zyad), by bringing back bottled holy sand from Touba, and by obeying one‟s marabout. Thus, there appear to be both spiritual and material practices, enabling the talibé to receive such a blessing. Conversely, not possessing baraka, such as not being successful in life, not having a family, not being healthy, is an existential condition that shakes the faithful Mouride, in that it questions his spiritual and social life.

In Samba‟s words:

“Everything comes from Allah, so if He‟s s not happy with you, well, you won‟t have a

very good life. Or it might be that if you suffer in this world, you‟ll be happier in the

beyond. Certainly it‟s not money that counts, it‟s doing things with moderation, not to

think badly about other people and hope that, little by little, every good action of yours

will get rewarded (…). Some people though, no matter what they do, won‟t be happy in

this life.”

My meetings with Samba never took more than a couple of hours. He is a very frail man, both in appearance, tall and skinny, and for the way he came across: he spoke slowly and gently, interjecting timidly and always looking for my agreement in what he thought were the main reasons for his difficulty in integrating in France and finding a woman. He reiterated the idea that because French society is individualist and selfish, for a man like him to even approach a woman was hard. One day he mentioned an episode, seemingly innocuous to anyone else, which counted as the crushing proof to him that French women are harsh and racist: he had greeted a female passerby, who did not reply back to him. 265

Samba often complained of fatigue, a reason for which he was also not able to work and that forced him into isolation, even though he occasionally visited some friends in the neighbourhood. They were, however, younger than him. In the West African milieu, elders have effective power over the young ones, yet not in a situation like his. He had no family links with these people and, for his age, he should have been in a position of power

(financial, social or even by having some status in the religious community he attended).

On the contrary, he was ill, with no family and no spouse; he had recently given up his attendance at both the Mouride centre of Aulnay, Île-de-France region, and even at Foyer

93. What had remained was his jewellery workshop and the few orders he still received, something to get by with, as a distraction and as income.

Samba hinted at the idea that his illness was the cause of his actions, which ultimately were part of God‟s design. He thought of this as a condemnation: God had mysteriously decided that he should be ill, that this should be his fate. Thus, he was unable to find a partner, or eventually to even attend the Mouride centre of Aulnay. His “fate” did not contradict the fact that he felt guilt, generated and deepened by the fact that all the things he was unable to do or represent (e.g. being the head of the family) are socially sanctioned and their absence stigmatised in his milieu. Thus, not only was he the victim of his illness, of his community‟s stigmatization and of his spiritual inadequacy, but this was also part of a divine project. It is from the latter perception that he drew some kind of strength, perseverance and patience. Teaching the Qur‟an allowed him to perform those good deeds that would earn him baraka, as he could not do so with his own children. Samba was very proud of this: he would show me the Qur‟an and CAB‟s qasidas, which he jealously kept under the bed in order to “protect” them from malevolent eyes. Ideas of bad influences

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(evil eye and the jinn) were powerful for him as much as among the residents at Foyer 93.

Conversely, the Qur‟an protected him at night time, when he slept. The idea that the jinn attack human beings in isolated and quiet places makes the night one of the privileged moments of attack. The Qur‟an, not only has a beneficial effect against the jinn once specific Suras are recited (as seen), but also metonymically through its own materiality.

This is why written parts of the Qur‟an are used in amulets: they are literally worn. Recent studies in West Africa have shown how the pagne, the traditional female gown, is painted in all of its length with verses of the Qur‟an, so that whoever wears the pagne is dressed by the Qur‟an. Samba, and different residents at Foyer 93, also kept their copy of the Qur‟an close to their bed.

In turns, Samba made sense of his situation with social arguments (sickness: guilt for not being married and the impossibility of going home), medical ones (his disease caused by the accident had reduced him to this) and symbolic ones (his illness was part of a divine project he was not to know). Samba is indeed a paradigmatic case of the concepts of illness, sickness and disease used in clinical practice by MC.

MC‟s idea of acculturation, as a process experienced by the migrant during his adaptation in the new country implying change, would suggest that the patient‟s suffering (universal), expressed contextually (through cultural metaphors and social condition), may lead to the integration of new values and identifications which he has the chance to discover in therapy. This way, the universalism of the Republican model (and psychiatry) parallels the universalism of the human psyche, wherein differences only emerge as pathologies, anomalies and/or cultural differences, which would have to be “decoded” into the

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“universal language” of the French droit commun, ultimately a reflection of French culture.

For many working class people from West Africa such identification is hindered already, since the same droit commun which grants free access to (mental) health care also marginalises them on social and civic grounds. The accent on French universalism ends up emphasizing the migrants‟ differences, which can only emerge in therapeutic and social realms, generally as vectors of (social) problems and (mental) disorders, generally also synonyms for migration.

I argue that the social marginalization of so many people like Samba would hardly find in therapy a resolution to their pain, because their characteristics (social and cultural) are regarded as so conspicuously distinct that these people cannot be assimilated as they are.

They would have to give up their “cultural dressing” (the affair of the veil sums up quite literally this point) for one rather more universal (French), achieved in therapy or through

French schooling. In my view, notwithstanding the current critique of Nathan‟s presuppositions in the French social sciences and clinical milieus, acculturation in therapy, understood as a non-ethnic and universalist approach to the patient‟s social/cultural context of illness, does the opposite of what its basic Kleinman model promises to do. Simply put, rather than an emphasis on the patient‟s contextual elements of suffering (disease, sickness and illness), French transcultural psychiatry appears to distance itself from any determinant

(ethnic, cultural, religious and of status/class) perceived as a fraudulent version of the universal French principle of social unity and homogeneity.

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IV Representations of affliction and suffering among the Mouride and Soninké communities.

Since Rivers‟s studies (1923) and those of Devereux on the Mohave Indians‟ culture

(1939), medicine has benefited from anthropological insights because of their engagement with and understanding of the patients‟ cultural background. Nonetheless, when the incongruence and shortcoming of the “universal” biological approach vis-à-vis patients of foreign/non-Western origin became apparent, then a more empathic and contextual approach became vital and, with it, the anthropological bottom-up, inductive method of understanding processes of meaning-making. This subverts the ethnocentric dominant discourse, generally middle-class, white and secular or Catholic (Littlewood and Lipsedge

1997), which has typically claimed to be able to solve all medical matters. A similar assumption was also implicit in colonial psychiatry, both French and English, which believed that their subjugated populations could advance from contact through white society. It appears that rather the opposite occurred: Fanon (1952; 1961) elucidated, among others, the wrongs, both social and mental, of the French colonial presence in Algeria.

Nevertheless, as Keller (2007) pointed out, colonial psychiatry was “ at different periods

… less a weapon in the arsenal of colonial racism than it was a tool for the emancipation of the colonised, a discipline in crisis and a mechanism for negotiating the meaning of difference for republican citizenship” (p. 4). The author reminds us how from the orientalist tradition to the postcolonial literature, Islam and insanity have been often associated. According to the first, the Muslim world emerged as the land of insanity, which justified the French settlement in North-West Africa, as the guardians of order and health, through military force and asylums. Postcolonial studies attribute to colonial brutality and

269 violence, both the state of chaos of the colonised countries and the mental distress of the subjects.

The West African cultural landscape is dotted with the figures of sorcerers, traditional and religious healers, who manipulate the forces of nature, linking the human sphere with the supernatural, and with the realm of the spirits, the jinn. They become the necessary reflection of the ways in which health and healing is managed, addressed and delivered within the specificity of the cultural context of these societies. The diagnosis of illnesses in terms of spiritual occurrence entails a series of explanations and actors, which encompass the body and the mind, and the material and the immaterial. At the core of African traditional healing is the idea that spirits, the jinn, control illnesses (Last, 2007, p. 7). The healer works through a chain of signs and signifiers to disclose the cause of the illness and tackle its effects in nature (Sow, 1980). The marabout is conceived to link instead the immediate reality (of illness and suffering) to Allah, to whom the marabout addresses his prayers. In fact, different forms of intelligence outline an Islamic cosmogony whose signs, ayat, inform vulnerable creatures of its divine nature. The act of deliberation, tafakkur, is the primal step into Islam, which is “submission” to this truth, and thus the first obligation of a Muslim. Those who choose to ignore such knowledge are the kafirs (Turner, 1996).

humanlike spirits, live a parallel life to that of ,(جين) Within the Islamic tradition, the jinn the humans. Some troublesome jinn are said to attack people, interfere with their lives, creating troubles of the mind and misfortune. In Senegal, they are commonly thought to inhabit forests or deserted places. The jinn are mentioned in the Qur‟an, Sura 72, and variously in the Hadith of the Prophet, as having been created from the “smokeless flames

270 of fire”, from where also Satan, shaytan, is thought to originate (Khalifa, 2005). The jinn can see the humans, who in turn, can “see” and “own” them. Interestingly, from the Arabic

,(جنّة) that is, mad, and yanna ,(مجنىن) root of the noun jinn derives the word maynuun paradise. The correlation of illness and health to the same source, which is eventually spiritual, is particularly salient. Illness and health unfold in mediation, or through a process of negotiation with the spiritual realm, which implies the essentially non-psychotic nature of the possessed in the cosmogony (Beneduce, 2002, p. 87). Hence, Khalifa (2005) explains the difficulty of discerning the interaction between cultural statements of alleged attacks of the jinn reported by Muslim patients and episodes of illness, which fall within conventional medicine. Indeed, through his clinical studies one can observe the puzzlement of the clinician: some people only recover after resorting to traditional healing, while others only after medical treatment.

In Senegal, the phenomenon of the rab, the spirits generated by the union of the jinn with humans, has been thoroughly studied by both Zempleni (1966) and the Ortigues (1984) in relation to the Wolof, Serer and Peul ethnic groups. Zempleni (1966) highlighted the importance of the discernment of the rab by the ritual of ndepp. This involves the whole community, in which the illness of the person attacked by the rab is less important than dealing with the rab through the determination of the rab by its assimilation to one of the victim‟s deceased family members. In this way, the social-familial element of the process is the premise of the ritual. Once the rab has been determined and given a place in the family lineage, it is linked to the family altar, samp, to become tuur (identified spirit).

Normally, identification results in the resolution of the possession state. As Lambek noted

(1981), the spirits‟ descent makes sense of problems, including illness, occurring

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repeatedly in one‟s family. On the other hand, the Ortigues (1984) pointed out how the

spirit‟s identification within the family may also explain why people upon migration and/or

by adhering to Islam, become impermeable to the spirits‟ pursuit and thus break the family

tradition, consisting in the identification of the family altar32 (op. cit, p. 223-7). As Last has

outlined (2007) with regards to the Hausa in Nigeria, the spiritual realm of the jinn has

shrunk, so that “if the present trend continues, only the herbal aspect of traditional

medicine will survive” (2007, p. 7). Senegalese migrants abroad turn to the protective

action of their own spiritual guide, the Mouride marabout, as their territorial and spiritual

environments have changed. Fassin (1992) also argues that Muslim migrants embrace

Western therapy as an option along their therapeutic journey of acculturation.

In the Mandinka mountains of Mali, there is a specific social strata of people that form a

circle of initiated people linked to the jinn, the koma. They are responsible for guarding the

group from foreign intrusions, for circumcising the male youth, and for substantially

protecting themselves and others from the powerful witchcraft of women, who belong to

another “circle of jinn” (Zobel, 1996). People adhering to the koma cult are called

nyamakalaw, men of knowledge, and they comprise those working at the forge (numuw),

the griots (jeliw), the specialists in the Muslim tradition (funew) and the craftsmen

(garankew). The existence of the same social stratification at Foyer 93 shows that all these

social classes are involved in migration. Madinka society also includes the groups of the

free or noble ones (horonw) and the slaves (jonw) – one person of slave descent was also at

Foyer 93. Moreover, the male youth, lescadets, in each of these social classes, are even

more prone to migrate, since it is the more senior people that acquire land and power more

32 Through the ndepp ritul, each family acknowledges its ancestors, which thereby become part of the family tradition, symbolised and venerated at the family “altar” (tuur). 272 easily, following the rule of their segmentary society. According to Zobel, the koma cult has a social role in alleviating stratification and hence the segmentation of society, namely, by initiating new male members into the association and giving them some social voice.

Different age groups may also form different circles. The koma protects itself with ritual masks, used against those who reveal the secret of the association, more specifically, against witchcraft. The masks are worn during celebrations, accompanied by the music of drums, the jembé. The knowledge of the secrets and functioning of the koma appears to be non-systemic, “depending on having used protective medicines and on the possession of powerful objects and secrets” (p. 642). Such a characteristic is shared by other healing and

Sufi traditions, as Last (2007) and Brenner (1985) have respectively shown.

Leaders of the koma are called alternatively moriw (marabout) and soma (priest-witch).

They are the nobles of the koma, being able to fabricate objects of power, heal and make sacrifices to the jinn. Divination rituals are carried out by the warada and are associated with “visible trance states” (Zobel, 1996, p. 645). They are able to communicate with the jinn by using the Qur‟an and the prayer beads. The koma do not think that the jinn are incorporated into the human body, but that they are just visible, and moreover, sustain social relations with the moriw, who summons them during the ritual. This tradition, komajinne, is considered a form of paganism (locally called animism), yet is not in contradiction with Islam. The representatives of both traditions cooperate and recognise each other, by paying visits or, as with the koma, limiting aspects of the ritual, which may conflict with Islam – like the use of the mask. The Muslim jinn, as opposed to the komajinne,are understood to “possess the individual, inflicting pain and misfortune” (p.

647).

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Pitt-Rivers (1992) notes the remarkable absence of anthropological literature on the subject of grace, an exception being made for the works of Mauss and Lévi-Strauss for whom, respectively, the concepts of gift and exchange entail that of gratuitous reciprocity, “the cement which holds any society together” (p.218). Divine grace is solicited by sacrifices, since “the offering invites a return-gift of grace, the friendship of God” (p. 223). Unlike the relatively scarce literature on the subject of grace, that of baraka enjoys instead a greater emphasis in Islamic studies.

As we have seen, among the Mouride talibés the barakais the gift with which the saintly man, the wali, is endowed, due to his closeness to God. Nonetheless, Werbner (2003) talks of a “symbolic complex of blessing” (p. 250), in which barkat is only one term among several, one that specifically refers to a particular form of saintly power, which is not only for healing and exorcism. In this sense, “it is a generic Islamic term for divine blessing.

Barkat imbues objects, such as the salt given by the pir (the Sufi saint), with the power of procreation, life, fertility” (p. 251) and so on. “Barkat is magic and contagious. This means that the Sufi saint is charged physically with barkat, which explains why he is constantly mobbed by devout followers, endangering his life in their attempts to touch him” (p. 252).

Barkat can thus be transmitted metonymically as well as metaphorically to things,

“crystallising embodied connections between a sacred centre and its extended peripheries”

(Werbner et al., 1998, p. 13). Mouride talibés attend the magal, the commemoration of

CAB‟s departure to exile, by going to Touba, the place of the saint‟s tomb, from where they bring back water or sand, known to be holy and miraculous because it comes from

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CAB‟s sacred pilgrimage site. Migrants in Paris receive CAB‟s barkat also by honouring the magal at the Mouride centre, praying and eating blessed food.

In my respondents‟ view, the ontological complexity of barkat adds to the confusion existing in Europe regarding who is a marabout, a healer, or one who uses fetishes or in other ways practises magic: they are all equally employed as synonyms for charlatans.

Within both the Mouride and Soninké communities, healers, also named with the term

“marabout”, are those whose spiritual power enables them to practice divination, guided by the jinn, and/or have herbal knowledge. In a sense, among the Mouride talibés the distinction between the marabout and healer is stricter, since the Mouride hierarchy stems from the Khalif of Touba, at the head of the order, down to the people whose weight is assigned by their position in CAB‟s family genealogy and by the responsibility one has in the leadership of the order. As seen in the previous chapter, the attribution of the latter is not short of frictions. Understandings of affliction and suffering respectively in the

Mouride community and at Foyer 93 vary, notwithstanding that core societal divisions, shared by both communities, are a source of similar antagonisms. These produce jealousies conceived as the cause of sorcery/witchcraft, which my respondents ward off in different ways.

VMouride understading of suffering.

At the Mouride centre in the Île-de-France region, I had the chance to talk with my respondents about some of the problems arising among the talibés and about the strategies they employ to face them. Both the president and his assistant are aware that not all the believers agree with the management of the centre, for example, its detachment from the

275 administration of the Hysbut Tarqyya in Senegal, and its move to formalise itself within wider organizations in France, such as FNMF (Fédération de Musulmans de France). The centre is also opening up to the Parisian municipality, while initiating a process of reinterpretation of CAB‟s teaching. This opposes narrow understandings of leadership as that merely determined by one‟s descent from CAB‟s saintly lineage, the silsila, and this inevitably creates tensions among those who either belong to the saintly lineage or feel that this should be the landmark defining the leadership of the order. Moreover, the president‟s

(and his wife‟s) management is very strict, imposing modesty of dress and behaviour on all the believers, as opposed to other Mouride centres (such as that of Aulnay, Île-de-France region) also understood as social places for the community (where the talibés meet to pray and be together). The president‟s assistant, Gorgui, is a male Mouride in his thirties, from

Dakar. He has settled with his family in Paris, where he works and studies social sciences.

He says on this:

“Not everybody likes what we do here. Some people are jealous or simply evil and if you

are not careful, they can really hurt you and your family. You really have to protect

yourself and tread very carefully! It‟s not because we are at CAB‟s centre that people who

attend it are all good. Some, for example, only come here to have their audience, so that

they can be seen or listened to, hoping to be noticed to acquire a prominent position in the

community [in order to teach the children the qasidas during vacations, organising CAB‟s

forums and so on].”

My respondents address the subject of illness and affliction, its causality and effects, as human destiny. Lay people and Muslims undergo the same suffering, physical and mental, but act upon it differently, since the latter ascribe their state to mystical agents and

276 conceive of their agency as part of a divine plan. Illness is understood as a state, which cannot be explained by the way it is perceived. Because the Qur‟an states that Muslims are compelled to heal themselves by any possible means, my respondents believe that in the face of illness both medicine and traditional healing are valid. They define themselves as the generation of change, between the receiving country and that of origin, receptive of both worlds especially in their health-seeking behaviour. They do not despise western doctors so much as to resort only to their marabouts: they find the former useful to treat physical ailments, while the latter better placed to deal with troubles of the mind, since these entail the domain of the spirits.

Affliction, superseding illness, takes shape in many ways. It is formulated as the possible attack of the jinn, as witchcraft and even as an encounter with somebody negative towards you. CAB is the supreme guide of the order and the one the talibés pray to, as

Mohammed‟s intercessor and server, the Khadim Rassoul. Nevertheless, any Mouride talibé follows his own spiritual guide, who might not necessarily be in France, and who remains their guide for life. The distinction the Mourides make between the guérisseur

(healer) and the spiritual guide, the marabout, is one which separates the domain of lasrar, magical knowledge, and that of baraka, mystical power, with which the marabout is thought to be endowed due to his spirituality and purity, which makes him closer to God.

Healers can use their knowledge to harm people. In fact, anyone, including the Mourides, can attend them in order to cause somebody‟s ill fate. Mariama, a female talibé at the centre, aged twenty-four, said to me:

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“People may just be against you because they don‟t like you, because they think you are

too successful or pretty and may want to harm you on this simple basis. What they do is

that they take something belonging to you - a piece of nail, hair, of your dress etc – and

they take it to the “marabout”. He will be able to use formulas from the Qur‟an and act

upon it. These objects are put where the victim often goes (his/her work place, house etc)

and hid there. This happens a lot and people happen to have misfortunes like that, without

even knowing how.”

The talibés explain the relationship marabout-talibé as one which has changed over time, since not only are there no more of CAB‟s heirs to inherit the leadership of the order, but also in the Diaspora, the spiritual guide is no longer there to sustain and guide the talibé in his spiritual quest. Hence, notwithstanding the distinction between tradition and Islam, the believers are turning towards healers to solve their day-to-day concerns. The marabout- healer thus becomes the reference for all ordinary believers, including the Mourides. The spiritual guide is said to be concerned with Allah and Islam, yet his advice may not suffice to face the challenges that migration throws at them. The talibés I have talked to at the centre and followed in their homes, explained to me that their practice of Islam is according to the rules, which forbids lasrar, magic. Nonetheless, they have concerns about their success in life, about the suitability of their children‟s marriages (marriages into lower castes are still traditionally despised) and upbringing, about their legal status (many have student visas, which have to be renewed every two years), which may push them to see healers. In a way, the distinction they make is between the blessing (baraka) and prayers one asks of the marabout, and the protection which one seeks from the marabout-healer.

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The jinn are thought to be everywhere, including your own house, and to be responsible for your misfortune. This is a wide category, which encompasses health problems (premature birth, illness, and mental distress), loss of a loved one (by death or end of a relationship) and various others forms of grievance (i.e. lack of respect or fights in the family, dishonour and so forth). Thus, the reasons for seeking a marabout and marabout-healer may be akin, but the latter‟s actions are different. The spiritual guide can provide protective objects, but this is said to be rare. I heard from Ousmane, another talibé, at the Mouride centre:

“The spiritual guide has no time to do these things, he only prays to God and CAB that you

soon find peace and sort out your problem. Exceptionally he can take excerpts from the

Qur‟an, write them on paper and give it to you, so that you‟ll wear it. Wearing the amulet

is important because it will be with you all the time and thus protect you better.

Nevertheless, that is the marabout-healer‟s job; he is there for that, he‟s got the material

and the time. The spiritual guide may ask his sons to fabricate amulets for you. Generally,

all the marabout may do is give you a bottle of water, recite prayers over it, spit in it and

then give it to you. Marabouts in Senegal also use sand from Touba, which you can

gradually use diluted in water. Marabout-healers normally belong to your circle of people,

people you trust, maybe Mourides themselves, to whom you can resort and feel confident

enough to open yourself and tell your deepest problem.” (Ousmane, thirty-four, from

Dakar).

The jinn are said to enter people‟s houses at dusk, so it is good practice to shut the windows and carry out the maghrib, the compulsory evening prayer. The jinn may attack their victims everywhere they are, be that in Senegal or in France. The jinn‟s space is not humans‟, so my respondents conceptualise their attacks as “interference” with their world.

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There are spiritual guides renowned for their baraka in Senegal, through which thay are

able to heal. Serin Mansour Sy, Khalif of the Tijans33, is one of these and people mob him

in the hope of receiving his blessing. Having said this, Mouride spiritual guides may not

have such gifts, even though they are the “masters” of their talibés in everything

concerning their spiritual life. Gorgui, the president‟s assistant at Taverny, said on this:

“There are nice and troublesome jinn too. The latter are dangerous and can decide to afflict

you, sometimes also because they are very keen on you and they want you for themselves:

they will make your love life impossible, or make you fall ill, so that you are under their

power. Others are simply jealous: they will make your wife have a premature child, or

make you lose your friends and so on. Our spiritual leaders cannot do much against this;

they themselves resort to marabout-healers!”

Marabout-healers can produce amulets and protective objects containing extracts from the

Qur‟an, such as necklaces and leather belts. When Mourides go abroad have serious

concerns, they ask the marabout-healer to carry out the khalwa. This is a very old tradition

in Sufi milieus, when the aspirant believer withdrew in meditation with his marababout‟s

guide for forty days. Marabouts-healers practicing the khalwa, withdraw in meditation for

three days, during which they resort to istikhar. The istikhar, which means seeking

goodness from Allah (http://www.islamicacademy.org), is a practice well known in Islam.

It is a prayer made of two cycles (rakas) of the prayer Nafl salat, interspersed with

33 The Tijanyya is a Sufi order, founded in Algeria in 1740 and brought to West Africa by Bu Tibe Ba, who saw in Elhajdi Tijane Sy the muqaddam (leader) of the new order. Tijan adepts are found throughout West and Northern Africa, Indonesia and the United States. In Senegal the Tijan order is numerically second only to the Mouridyya. 280

different suras34. The two rakas should then be followed by a du’a, praising prayer to

Allah, preceded and followed by salutations to God‟s grace. After the istikhar prayer, one

should carry out the ablutions before sleeping. The istikhar prayer is understood to

stimulate premonitory dreams, anticipating God‟s will.

The Mourides think that practitioners who claim to be able to solve all problems in France

are only aiming to dupe credulous people, and indeed these are perceived to be the

charlatans, since marabout-healers should belong to their own entourage, and be people

that the talibés rely on enough to entrust with their deepest worries. The Marabout-healer

can happen to be in Senegal, so that often a network of contacts is put in place. Gorgui said

his father at times sends him prayers (in amulets) to protect him, through people who travel

to Europe and who bring him the amulet, or make it reach him, or by mobilising other

people in the milieu. Marabouts and marabout-healers can have their own jinn, guiding

them. The istikhar is conceived to be a source of inspiration and guidance descending from

God.

VI Affliction as social deviance and illness.

According to Sylla (et al.)‟s clinical study of psychopathologies in Senegal (2001), the

term to indicate madness, doff, is accompanied by the expression: dafa reew ba doff,

literally meaning “so mad as to be impolite”, that is, disturbing the social order. This refers

to the metally ill, who are aggressive towards themselves or others, and whose madness

eventually leads to their isolation or withdrawal. Isolation appears to be the main marker of

the inception of madness among the Senegalese and Bambara groups (Corin et al., 1993),

34 In the first raka, one should recite the Al-fatiha and Al-kafirun suras; in the second raka the sura Al-Fathiha is to be followed by the sura Al-ikhlas. 281 where descriptions revolve around ideas of a non-integrated self – fatò, in Bambara.

Therefore, “being calm” and “not answering properly” denote states or responses defined as the limit between sanity and insanity. Among the Soninké, while withdrawal indicates the presence of a problem, generally associated with depressive states (p. 142), and possibly linked to professional deception (p. 147), confrontation, disputes and bizarre look and behaviour testify to one‟s waxanté, the Soninké term for madness. Courage and dynamism are in fact characteristics of the Soninké „sane‟ identity (p. 151). Mental illness in this context is thus a kind of „extravagant‟ mental illness in comparison to the

Senegalese doff, implying impoliteness and aggressiveness. The Soninké difference between the waxanté and jinebena (p. 131), that is, possession of the jinn, requiring traditional healing, is salient.

During my fieldwork in Paris, I have had the chance to meet two healers, pointed out to me by members of these two communities. The one introduced to me by the Mouride community, Drame, held his divination sessions at his house in Barbès. He explained to me that his clientele belonged to his own circle of people, that is, he did not advertise his activity. This healer is also said to confront liguééy, sorcery. People consult him when they think that somebody, or even the jinn, either in Senegal or in France, is trying to harm them, or are making their life go wrong. When I visited the healer, a woman was there to ask the marabout-heler to “break” her son‟s relationship with a girl. The woman, of a maraboutic family, wished her son to marry within his own milieu, and as her son‟s girlfriend belonged to a family of griot descent, for this mother this was dishonourable.

Drame‟s patients are people who may have various problems, such as alcoholism,

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infidelity, sexual impotence and so on, where these are conceived to be the result of the

jinn‟s work.

Drame would resort to the hatim, a grid associating a numerological system to the letters of

the Arabic alphabet; which reads from right to left after the Arabic syntax. The grid, used

in the ritual, is applied using the letters of the name of the person (or other personal detail),

so that the resulting number provides a formula to be used to protect him. One of these,

called the formula of Souleymane, is deemed useful to heal all kinds of illnesses35. It

employs fifteen as the working number - obtained by summing up or multiplying the value

of some of the letters with others. Other grids apply different letters, which therefore result

in different numerical combinations. An example follows:

(see following page)

35 This formula translated from the Arabic goes: “a marabout is working to take you”, meaning that the marabout is casting away the jinn. 283

ا ب ج د

d = 4 j = 3 b = 2 a =1

ھ و ز ح

h = 8 z=7 w = 6 He = 5

ﻌ ۍ ط ل

L = 30 ta = 20 i = 10 Tua = 9

م ٮ ص ع

ain = 70 s = 60 n = 50 m = 40

ڧ ض ق ر

r =200 q = 100 da = 90 f = 80

س ت ٽ خ

Kh = 600 tha = 500 ta = 400 s = 300

ذ ﻐ غ ش

Ch =1000 Rahine = 900 zha = 800 dh = 700

Drame summons rauhan and khudan,jinn of one kind, to guide him during divination.

According to him, not all practitioners have the power to deal with these kinds of spirits,

since they only associate with men of the highest spirituality and moral standing, and

knowledge of the Qur‟an and its power. The intervention of the guiding spirit may fail to

happen when the practitioner has misbehaved or failed to accomplish his prayers. In this

case, he should praise the spirits and gain their intervention by repenting and asking

forgiveness. The Surat Al-Jinna - the seventy-second in the Qur‟an and the twenty-eighth

of the Revelation36 - is useful to this purpose. The pantheon of the jinn is therefore crucial

36 The Suras are ordered in the Qur‟an by length, and therefore, they do not follow the chronological order in which they appeared historically. This way, Muslims refer in the first case to the standard order, while in the latter as to the “Suras of the Revelation”. Accordingly, they produce different counting. 284 to determine the problem and its reparation, since they are the practitioner‟s allies, without whom he could not operate. Therefore, reparation entails mediation in different realms, where what is at stake is not only the victim‟s health or problem resolution, but also a wider equilibrium, which has been disrupted. The success of the practitioner‟s intervention lies, in fact, in his moral standing, so that good, as opposed to evil, is not only a Muslim principle of behaviour, but a source of power attained through spiritual experience. This way, during divination, all the agents involved undergo a testing.

What emerges is that the hatim, used during divination, or the amulets, holy water and the sand taken from Touba are among the several facets employed by my respondents in Paris as ways of ascertaining the truth about one‟s problem/transgression, or as a means to protect themselves against the aggression of the jinn, adversity and so on. Nonetheless, resorting to marabouts is also propitiatory: because they are conceived to be dealing with the spiritual realm, they bring baraka, understood in the widest sense possible. Baraka can thus be the marabout‟s advice, his fabrication of protective objects, his power to deal with, see or push the jinn away from the victim. My respondents think that the validity of the marabout‟s intercession is temporary, limited in time, and contextual to the problem and situation. Amulets and prayers have to be reproduced and performed at any occasion, as a long as life goes on, in order to keep troubles at bay or escape from them when these arise.

The residents of Foyer 93 endorse marabout-healers for their skills, but most often because of what they represent: their tradition, identity and needs. Whether the latter are „good‟ or considered to be less powerful than those left in the home country or as less orthodox practitioners of the Islamic tradition, they are still specialists to whom the community

285 resorts. Marabout-healers belong to same milieu as their clients and, most of all, they experience the same difficulties of settling down in the big city. For many, obtaining a residence permit or avoiding a police-check can be reason enough to visit one of them.

Marabouts and marabout-healers guarantee the marginal, yet vital space of hope that things can be manipulated, turned in their favour, and that the spiritual realm, as opposed to the law, can still satisfy their demands as human beings.

My respondents sense a separation between the „law of the toubabs (the white people)‟ and their own spirituality. Notwithstanding the attempts carried out by French transcultural psychiatry to alleviate the migrant‟s afflictions and to bridge the existing gap between the wider French community and first-generation migrants, the latter are bound to be left out

(willingly or not) from any state interventionism targeting them. At the very least, migrants fear that any form of state interventionism can eventually put at risk the existence of the community, by dispersing or controlling it. Moreover, from the standpoint premising such interventions such actions are regarded as fundamentally secularised, disenchanted and detached from their needs, which, at a deeper ontological level of self-preservation, entails keeping their own identity, community and body intact. For these people, the ultimate corruption is neither repatriation nor death, but the loss of their tradition, which they struggle to assert as a Muslim community. Both the Sufi talibés and the residents of Foyer

93 conceive of the beyond as the only supreme reality. Their failed integration and marginality after almost fifty years of West African migration to France stand as a hybrid way of resisting French exclusionary migration policies and their identity as Muslims. The foyers, as much as the banlieues and the Mouride mosques are heterotopias of Muslim and community meaning. The foyers have become home to older and younger generations of

286 migrants, who have transformed them, in response to the tightening of migration laws, into their permanent dwelling. While the elder ones thought that another way of preserving their family was to keep their wives back home, the younger ones are attempting to move faster, accommodating themselves between Foyer 93 and other foyers or even in houses in Paris.

Their strategies are multiple, supple and all temporary. The only constant is their stay in

France, in the face of uncertainty and marginalization, which is the feature of the current migratory pattern, which now covers their lifelong sojourn in France.

Soninké migration is now as dominated by male migrants as it was during the migration closure of the 1970s. Men keep arriving in France, often illegally, and their way in is facilitated by other family members. With it being impossible to go back, one way of keeping up their tradition, is to seek the help of healers. French medical institutes such as the Minkowska have proved to be inadequate to communicate with this part of the migrant population, which resists any form of assimilation, be it social or therapeutic.

Despite the longstanding postcolonial heritage in West African studies and political relationships with West Africa, France is still struggling to assimilate the West African and

Muslim population it hosts at home. In therapeutic setting this is done through the conviction that cultural mixing, métissage, a variant of the assimilation project, can be the only way forward for the migrants to integrate in France. On the other hand, the migrant patients seem to point to a form of mediation, which would see them and their interlocutors

(healers, associations and so forth) at the centre of the process, not far from that already initiated in England. The Minkowska Centre, still unique in its endeavour, while attempting to adapt French psychiatry to the Africans‟ and more generally migrants‟ needs,

287 cannot extend its medical provision to people like the residents of Foyer 93. The latter, increasingly more consciously, feel that what France offers is not designed for them, who are socially marginal and strongly attached to their own values. For the latter, what marabout and marabouts-healers still offer is the guarantee to be listened to, understood and fortified in their spiritual and social quest. The French state and medical programmes hint at the idea that the way indicated by Devereux is outdated, so that to look back at one‟s own community for support and reference (communautarisme) cannot be pursued in

France. Secularism (laϊcité) and Republicanism oppose such a drive in a fundamental way.

Hence, the role of the marabouts flourishes in the wider setting of health and divination/anti sorcery connections, which reinforce the belief in the baraka, as their unique spiritual way of understanding the world and dealing with it. More importantly, through their networks and practices, my respondents are able to resist assimilation and maintain their Soninké and Muslim identity in France.

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Conclusion

Global world, blocked migrants.

My analysis has focused primarily on the Soninké community from the region of Kayes living in a foyer of the Seine-Saint-Denis department, in the Île-de-France region. The foyers, as seen, can be said to be peculiar to France, since nowhere else in Europe do migrants live in similar accommodations. The foyers are not places where migrants are assembled before repatriation, but rather, housing solutions hosting only male migrants.

Women and children, these people‟s families, are absent. The foyers were conceived to host the first Algerian migrants, during the reconstruction of France following the aftermath of World War II. The majority of the foyers, hosting the new generation of migrants, are identical to the old ones of the past. No maintenance work or security measures have been implemented since. These foyers are commonly referred to as foyers- taudis, that is, slums. Foyer 93 is no exception to this: an open sewer is placed right in the middle of the court, next to the canteen, where the cooks prepare the resident‟s meals and the latter consume it. Rats and cockroaches sneak into the kitchen and in the rooms; anti- fire and even basic security measures are non-existent (wires both in the kitchen and in the café-bar are not insulated; the stairs to one side of the rooms on the third floor go up along the external wall, without any protection, and so on and so forth). The foyers are organised ethnically, since the residents themselves facilitate the entry of their family members into

France and likewise hinder such possibility to other non-community members. The

Soninkés of my study inhabit this space and have made it their home. Migration to France is no longer temporary, as the second generation migrants testified already in the 1980s

(see the Algerian Beur movement), but also, what my study has outlined is that the foyers 289 themselves are no longer temporary housing solutions for the migrants, but have turned into life-long residences. This has engendered firstly the ageing of the residents at Foyer

93, now a concern for the associations working on the ground for migrants‟ health and wellbeing, but also a new migratory pattern. While the return home is increasingly less viable (because of the obligation to reside in France to join pension schemes and of the illegality from which it is increasingly more difficult to get out), allegiance to the village is gradually changing its meaning.

My second case study is the community of the Mouride centre in the Île-de-France region, where Mouride talibés gather to pray and to celebrate Muslim and Mouride events (the mouloud, the magal and the aϊds principally). The Mouride tariqa, brotherhood, has widely been widely studied, both in relation to its formation under the colonial rule in Senegal and later as the new economic phenomenon, wherein young enterprising Mouride migrants have become a novel feature in the transnational migratory scene, through the networks of the tariqa. Mouride peddlers (the modu modu) could be seen selling their merchandise in the streets of Rome, Madrid, Paris and New York commonly throughout last decade.

Migration rules have tightened in Europe and the United States, especially following the

2001 terrorist attacks in the USA and their sequel in Europe. The Muslim diasporic communities have had to redefine and renegotiate their allegiance and loyalty to the nations that hosted them. Each nation, in dealing with Muslim migrants, has addressed the topic of integration and Islam often as overlapping agendas, which implies a consideration of their Muslim practice as an element serving to validate or invalidate their integration. In

France, in particular, the debate about the integration of the Muslim population, certainly not new, has nevertheless intensified. The suspicion under which Muslims are kept is

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expressed through the exclusionary politics aiming at reducing their proximity, visibility

and, by and large, their settlement in France. Examples are the veil affair, the concentration

of the migrant community in specific areas such as the banlieues or in the foyers in Paris.37

Secularism (laϊcité) is the principle upheld to justify the supposed impossibility of

integrating Muslims. The segmented model of integration discussed above, nevertheless,

has shown that integration may not follow even when cultural assets (i.e. language,

secularism and social mixing) are shared: the Algerian population can be used as an

example.

The universalism of French discourse, aiming at disqualifying the dérive communautariste

(communitarian drift), also affects the way migrants relate towards the state, that is, as

individuals who are equals before the law. In the sans-papiers movement, migrants

occupying the church of Saint Bernard reminded public opinion that they risk being or not

being individuals according to successive legislation, something that is not at issue among

community members. They initiated a discourse on French historic memory and the

colonial legacy, of which their presence in France is a living testimony. The Mouride

community in Paris has also started a counter discourse to the official one, one that aims at

showing the supposed universalist value of the Mouride message, clearly contrasting to the

French one. The Mouride community is also enacting an internal change, which, as with

the Soninké community of Foyer 93, shows the traits of a slow but also progressive

detachment from “home”. The Mouride tariqa, which was initiated in the Île-de-France as

37 In 2010 the French government initiated a programme of compulsory repatriation of thousands of Roma, justified by the will to crack down on their illegal camps and notwithstanding that as Europeans these people had the right to enter France without a visa. Recently, after thousand of Tunisians have flocked at the French borders, President N.Sarkozy has appealed to the EU for a suspension of the Schengen Treaty, backed up by Italian President S.Berlusconi (who, in fact, had issued travelling visas to these Tunisian migrants to “solve the problem”at his borders!). 291 a branch of the Mouride Hysbut Tarqiyyah, has distanced itself from its administration in

Senegal, while continuing to carrying out its project in Paris all the same. The Mouride centre is establishing links with the town of Paris to promote cultural/religious venues and initiatives, while carrying out education and cultural dissemination for the children in the community.

Finally, my fieldwork among associations working for migrants‟ health and wellbeing has deepened my understanding of the issues surrounding the migrants‟ settlement in Paris.

Even though my analytical angle can only be relative to the two communities I have considered, I would not be afraid to argue for its validity for the wider migrant population in France. It appears that the Soninké and Mouride migrants in Paris alike have made a choice about their stay in France, which is not simply a consequence of migration laws.

Both communities have established a life in Paris and are dealing with their moral responsibility towards their home countries in different ways. The Soninkés are availing themselves of the co-operation of French associations and NGOs for the development of their home countries, while the Mouride community is keeping the tariqa alive, through networking with other Mouride tariqas in France and Europe, and also through the progressive institutionalization and opening up to other Muslim federations of France.

Provided that the associations receive state funding on projects reflecting national priorities, it follows that the latter lie in the enduring institutionalization of Islam, after the national goal of an “Islam of France”, and on revenue-making projects aiming at the development of the migrants‟ home countries. The commune of Montreuil (where Foyer 93 is) has established development projects in mining areas rich in resources, such as the commune of Sadiola, in the Kayes region, where the most important gold mine is located.

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The French national focus goes towards establishing enduring links for France in Africa, rather than promoting softer migration rules or better conditions for migrants in France, which might stimulate greater undesired migration flows. Thus, health projects, which are expensive and difficult to carry out (both in France and in West Africa), are few and only sporadically supported: the budgetary cuts and the constant demand for standardization of procedures makes the life of associations working for the migrants very short-lived. The residents‟ increasing identification with being in France could benefit from projects enabling them to settle down in Paris and produce revenue beyond the univocal option to promote development in their villages.

The social outcry of the residents at Foyer 93 is expressed by their need to be listened to, showing their isolation but also the gap existing between them and the services that are in place for them in Paris. The social conditions that first generation migrants face are too extreme and disjointed from the main social body to be accessible to them. The residents of

Foyer 93 find it difficult to even start a bureaucratic process, which would make them eligible to access medical services, as the majority of the residents are illiterate. There is also an element of stoicism and an understanding of their permanence in France that pushes them to ignore their health, as issues of wellbeing are entangled more profoundly with the way they are perceived in France. The residents do not feel accepted as a community and as Muslims, especially after the 2005 riots, when they were discriminated against. During those days, a proposition was made to the medical staff to report their undocumented patients to the police, though this was never enforced. My respondents think that their stay in France depends exclusively on how much they can be resourceful, implying that they try and adapt to almost everything, without counting on the wider French community. Life at

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Foyer 93 is very precarious and issues of bad hygiene are very serious, yet this does not appear to be the residents‟ main concern. Their illegality, and the possibility that Foyer 93 be dismantled and the community in France segmented is what threatens them the most.

Their life has to continue within the margins of the community-foyer, which sustains them and allows them to live in Paris, where they have chosen to be and where they have settled with, and thanks to, their family members. Returns to the village are exceptional and fall within the old pattern of migratory projects, where the stay in France was temporary and bound to end. Currently, people from Kayes continue to migrate, notwithstanding the difficulty in entering France. Both young and older migrants think that their life has changed starkly from the life they used to live in the village, so that the possibility of going back is now even more of a myth. The community in Paris avails itself of the help, which health associations like Migrations et Santé bring to them into the foyer, their free health check-ups, prevention programmes and so forth. This way, they are occasionally referred to the nearby Bichat Hospital or to see a general practitioner. Nevertheless, they also resort to their own herbal knowledge, to community healers, to the savoir-faire of the iron makers and to the advice of the marabout at Foyer 93. They also find support in the community life that Foyer 93, notwithstanding its internal divisions and clashes, still offers (evening and

Friday prayers, communal life in the court, social moments at the café and so on). Their health seeking behaviour thus results from a combination of different options that are available to them, from French medical care to traditional healing. The elderly, who need particular medical attention, follow the same pattern as the youth: they resort to medical treatment at a very late stage. The elderly show the generational change in migratory patterns and expectations, where the village is still at the centre of the residents‟ migratory project (i.e. remittances and development projects), but it is not longer determining their

294 life project. While the older migrants have decided to stay in France and to keep their spouses back in the village, their younger counterpartss are already mixing their life at

Foyer 93 with their activities outside it. What is new is that this is considered to be the way forward, unlike in the past, when settling in France (even with their own spouses from

Kayes) was considered a betrayal of village allegiance.

My work at the Minkowska Centre outlined the institutional understanding surrounding migrants‟ health and wellbeing in France and the help they have put in place for them. The

Minkowska Centre provides transcultural psychiatry for the general migrant population in

Paris who are referred there by social institutions, such as the Red Cross and so forth, thus acknowledging the fact that migrants experience situations of illegality, marginalization, human rights violation and so on. Consideration of the social context of migrants is of crucial importance for the quality of the service provided by the centre, since the stress displayed by migrants is often a consequence of the social hardship they experience. The centre avails itself of Kleinman‟s model, according to whom the aetiology of mental illness is affected by physical, social and cultural determinants. At the core of the therapeutic model adopted by the Minkowska Centre is the idea that migrants go through a process of change, while adapting to the new social, political and contextual reality they inhabit in

France, and in which they are able to organise their life and subjectivity differently. In therapy, this means that what the migrant patient is offered is a way of analysing and defining himself according to the new challenges that migration has put along their path.

This is a therapeutic achievement that stems from the critique launched against the transcultural psychiatry initiated by Devereux (1978; 1980) and Nathan (1986; 1994), according to which the migrant would be helped if the contextual reality they have left

295 behind in their home country was reproduced in therapy. Thus, the ritual objects for transference were employed, together with translators and healers. At the Minkowska

Centre, it is believed that this method casts the patient back into his supposed cultural background, reducing him to be an individual with no options in life other than being the product of his own social context. Social scientists in France have also initiated a strong critique of Nathan‟s work (Fassin, 2000), which they have defined as guilty of transforming culture into a deterministic cage. In this way, the dogma that biomedical understandings could solve all matters for everyone had given way to the idea that it would be impossible to share or communicate across different cultural systems, and therefore that these should be mobilised at any occasion.

Notwithstanding the value of such critique, France has a great exemplar in Collomb‟s school at the Dakar Fann hospital, in Senegal. Collomb and his team carried out classical psychiatry care within a network in which the hospital and the community provide together support to the patient. This has never been replicated in Paris, nor has a debate opened to that effect, except among associations like Afrique Partenaire Service, where as we have seen, healers are often invited and the possibility of bridging the gap between the biomedical and traditional system is at least discussed and foreshadowed. Given the debates in transcultural psychiatry and the anthropological research now current in France, it appears very unlikely that such cooperation will be considered an option soon. A tentative approach in Paris akin to that of the Dakar Fann hospital would be considered out of place, since migrants are conceived to have embarked on a different experience to the one they have left behind. Thus, community-based therapy would be seen as a move towards the recognition that the migrants‟ community in France can provide support to the

296 individual and network between them and the institutions. Unfortunately, this is what is being rejected on the grounds that every individual who lives in France uses/accesses

French (medical) institutions like anyone else. Both grassroots associations and my own data collected among first generation migrants in Paris show the opposite. Migrants are detached from mainstream medical care, while trusting and using their community resources and traditional healing, not as an outcome of their community drift, but because of the huge gap and marginalization they experience daily. They appear to be very conservative and oriented towards their home village, simply because the margins within which they can operate are not much larger than those of their own community, both the one they left in Kayes and that of Foyer 93. I argue that a serious debate about migrants‟ wellbeing in France and their will to settle down has not been addressed, either at a political or anthropological level. Crucially, the residents‟ marginalization is further reinforced by the French emphasis on the development of the villages in Kayes, so that the former‟s integration in France is not an issue. The residents have retreated to the foyer, since fears of opening up to interventionism by the state would entail becoming vulnerable to even harder measures, which could put at risk their stay in Paris altogether.

i. Further considerations and future work.

The initiative of people like Mme Bintou has shown that the kind of help they offer meets the migrants‟ demands more successfully than that provided by French institutions, whose recognition and intellectual import is endorsed officially. This does not disqualify the latter‟s good intention, valuable premises and the better means they have to pursue them.

Nonetheless, my respondents, first generation migrants, find it more accessible and relevant to reach out to people who either belong to their community or put in place

297 strategies, which allow them to make their first steps in France. At present, the Minkowska

Centre is attracting second generation migrants, people who live and work in Paris and whose command of French is good. The number of people from the foyers or newly arrived to Paris are rarely patients of the centre. When this has occurred, they often disappear in the middle of their therapeutic period, without any trace. It emerges that even though the centre addresses the whole of the migrant population without discrimination of any sort, the reality shows that its action does not reach the greater majority of it. First generation migrants, who most need that help (counselling, support and advice for example), hardly know of the existence of the centre or, when they do, they tend to drop out of therapy.

Social inequalities and therapeutic shortcomings cannot be credited to the inefficiency of the centre, but rather to the separation existing between the providers of the service and their recipients. Migrants at Foyer 93 are not reluctant to accept help in order to ameliorate their life, but so far, this has implied propositions such as the dismantling of the foyer and the professionalization of their space.

I have shown that community members and the wider French community alike share ideas of a decent life and housing, while they have different levels of social power and these determine their respective choices. For my respondents it could be an improvement indeed to move to a better foyer and use healthier canteens and so on. Nonetheless, as seen, this also entails the disaggregation of their community into smaller residences, thus the suppression of the intra-community aid on which they rely almost exclusively. On an equal standing and under utopian egalitarian conditions, such as the Republican slogan goes, the residents would not reject different housing and mental health services (which are even free). At present, notwithstanding the internal divisions that the Soninké community has, it

298 is still able to allow newcomers from the village to settle in and to facilitate their living in

France, often throughout their life-long presence in Paris. The residents of Foyer 93 are not encapsulated by any current analytical term, since they are not citizens, nor technically migrants (this would entail their eventual return). The knot, which is left to unravel, is how

France manages migration. The loyalty to the nation of the second generation migrants

(technically French) cannot fail to be undermined by the way their fathers and forefathers were received in France in the first place. Whereas the former have been analysed socially and anthropologically, little attention has been dedicated to the process by which first generation migrants settle down in relation to issues of wellbeing, so that future generations of migrant descent will be fully integrated citizens. The problem lies in the past more cogently than it does in the future, which at present only means the expansion of

French interests overseas through “peace keeping” and development projects in West

Africa.

My work intends to be a contribution to migration and health studies in that it shows the accommodation process in Paris and strategies of survival vis-à-vis the social insecurity and deprivation of the Soninké community living in foyers of male migrant workers. This has revealed that the residents have commenced a process of detachment from their villages of origin, contrary to classic understandings of rural-urban mobility in Africa

(Geschiere et al., 1998; Geschiere 2005; Gugler 2002), which saw the return and link to the homeland as a datum. My anthropological analysis has pointed out the constraints within which this community is left to live and create wealth for themselves and their families in

Kayes, wherein exclusionary politics intend to limit their migration and successful insertion into society. Development projects are the main French national concern, as the

299 intention is to expand the French overseas presence in West Africa, rather than facilitating the integration of this minority group and their wellbeing in France. The setting is not very dissimilar from that of the earlier tirailleurs. The Soninkés continue to participate in development projects, while turning to other work options in Paris. Anthropological studies have generally focused on the role of youth in affecting the change of traditional norms and behaviours within and outside their milieu. My study counters this trend, since it is through the gaze of the elderly that I bring out the slow but also inexorable change that their generation has brought about: they have been the first to settle in Paris and to have engendered a separation from the village. In fact, they have left their spouses back home and opted not to bring them over to reconstitute their nuclear family. This choice stands for the realization that neither is it possible to return home nor is it possible to bring part of home back to Paris. The reality has changed: the life that one has left behind cannot be reproduced in France. In the 1970s, they paid the price of being amongst the first migratory waves into France, soon targeted by the 1974 law, which stopped migration entry altogether. Many opted for family reunions (until the 1986 Pasqua law made this more difficult), but others, as testified by the aging population of the foyers, decided not to.

Moreover, the maintenance of the “dual system” (Geschiere et al., op. cit, p. 312), classic in the rural-urban migratory pattern, where people could move back and forth from Kayes to France, has been impaired by the current migratory laws, conflicting with the promise of more flexibility of movement that globalization seemed to bring.

The community, for both the youth and the elderly, is that which they have constituted in

Paris. More specifically, the foyer-community has become the microcosm of their existence. The residents intend to keep their life there at all costs, even though Foyer 93 is

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unhealthy and unsafe. At Foyer 93, they have control of their lives: they can eat, wash

themselves, gather together in the common areas, pray and maintain a token community

life through the hierarchy of traditional figures. Customary laws and class divisions are still

in place, even though they are taking a more marginal role. Figures such as the

representative of the residents, the délégué, able to negotiate the residents‟ demands with

the managing association of the foyer, the AFTAM, in the consultation committee, are

taking the lead. This committee is the new arbre à palabre38 of the community in Paris.

Ideas of prestige and respect are now moulded by the needs of a community in Paris,

interested in keeping their own living space from where they can interact with other

realities outside it (such as associations, work place, family and community members

living in Paris and the Île-de-France region and so on). The great number of people present

at Foyer 93 can protect the residents from street violence, police raids and from the

interests of the municipality, which cannot interfere with Foyer 93 as it stands. Not simply

the AFTAM running Foyer 93, but also anti-racism and human rights associations are very

vocal and ready to rally in favour of these residents and others living in similar conditions.

This way, the demolition of the foyers is hardly a matter for the residents and the local

municipality alone. The residents know this and use the power they have to negotiate their

requests, through the channels that are available to them.

The social organization of Foyer 93 allows the residents the possibility of keeping up the

community‟s traditional practices. For example, the iron makers could not perform their

work in any other foyer, because smaller foyers would undergo greater controls and would

disaggregate the community. Thus, for example, not all the people working at the forge

38 The arbre à palabre is the tree under which customary village leaders meet to discuss important matters regarding the community. 301 might be assigned to the same foyer. The same can be said in relation to the marabout and the imam. The iron makers are the repository of a traditional practice, which they alone can perform (for the production of jewellery and utensils). They also carry out circumcision, initiate the younger ones into this profession, which is hereditary, and heal minor injuries such as cuts and burns (with the use of ritual formulas drawn from the Qur‟an). They draw their power from their relationship with the jinn, the spirits, so that in my respondents‟ eyes, the end of this craftsmanship would cast away a whole spiritual world. The marabout at Foyer 93 carries out divination, also working with the spirits, with which he is in relationship and which guide him during the divination ritual. Notwithstanding the fact that there is no consensus among the residents on the conformity of these practices to Islamic orthodoxy, nonetheless both those who practise them and those who use them do so in the name of Islam. By and large, the residents perceive the dismantling of Foyer 93 as an attack on the core of their religious and traditional practices and most importantly, the end of the community which sustains them all. Paradoxically, the foyer-community provides the only certainty in Paris and away from the village that the residents can keep on with their life.

While previous studies have highlighted that the residents‟ final project is in their rural home (by way of returning or carrying out their burial there), the elders of Foyer 93 have shown a different pattern. Their life-long project in Paris testifies to a generation of people whose life has been determined by the choice of distancing themselves from the village of origin and through separation from their female counterparts. Their moral responsibility to contribute to the wealth of the village is guaranteed by the remittances they continue to send. Nevertheless, the men‟s physical presence is no longer expected. The elder

302 generation thinks that women had to remain at home to behave according to tradition and

Islam, which the French standard of life (modernity, independence and so on) would corrupt and because of the financial burden their wives would have cost them once in

France. On the other hand, younger residents have initiated a less conventional discourse, according to which their women have to follow them to France to avoid their misbehaviour in the absence of their husbands. In both cases, the trend indicates that settling down in

Paris is the way forward. This does not go without guilt and suffering, encountering difficulties in adapting to Paris and to Foyer 93. The residents have a profound need to be listened to and to express their malaise, which they cannot communicate with their fellow residents at Foyer 93, who experience the same problems. Associations working within the foyers have evinced this issue, while they are overwhelmed by enormous responsibilities, little financial support, scarce co-operation and limited networks they can count on are among the harsh realities of working for migrants in Paris. The Minkowska Centre, for example, could bring amazing insights and greater help to the residents of the foyers, if it co-ordinated its work at the centre with that which is being done on the ground. This could be a way of seriously addressing the problem of integration and wellbeing, against the spirit of Republican discourse, which focuses solely on the integration and loyalty of second-generation migrants or on the development of migrants‟ home villages.

While previous analyses on migration studies have considered migrants as the bearers of change for their rural homes, to which they will eventually return (or to which they will be made to return), it appears that the trend has radically changed. Not only older and younger generations of migrants wish to stay in France, but the practicality of being in between two nations (or more) has been hindered by the tightening of migration laws. People at Foyer

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93 are in limbo, since both returning home and to mainstream life in France is now impossible. Transnational ideas of migration, showing successful migrants building their and their villages‟ future through movement cannot grasp the current context. In fact, these migrants are fundamentally trapped at the margins of society, with little hope of escaping it, since moving out of the foyers would entail the end of the community, its internal networks of aid and support, and thus the end of their only safe base in Paris. While in the

1970s West African migration to France registered an increase of female migrants (due to family reunions), the trend is now reversed: the presence of male migrants has augmented in the foyers to the point of exhaustion, while family reunions have diminished. Ideas of gradual assimilation by proximity, that is, of integration as an outcome of succeeding migrant generations to France have proved to be misplaced. The distance between the

Soninké minority group and wider French society has increased. While essentialising ideas of migrants depict them as the promoters of the wealth of their villages, to which they would be primarily oriented, only a few could confirm this model at Foyer 93. The majority of the residents live a very idiosyncratic position, wherein their desire to improve their own life in France is frustrated by their families‟ demands and by the increasing expectations (both French and Malian) about the future of the village. In addition, the hypothesis according to which the overcrowding of Foyer 93 would eventually impair village solidarity by impeding other community members from entering, has been disproved. The trend is one of greater male migration to France and to the foyers.

Returnees are outnumbered by those who have decided to stay, settling down in the foyers or making accommodations between the foyer and elsewhere in Paris. The foyers are now the new permanent homes of the Soninké migrants, where the elder generations have acquired their seniority rights over the younger ones, who therefore come and go according

304 to the alternatives they have been able to find. The ultimate destination is no longer the village though, but Paris itself, where the family will live eventually.

In this context, tradition and Islam intervene to validate or invalidate dynamics already existing or chosen by the residents. French social injustice and discrimination will be overridden in the future or in paradise, where the “good Muslims” will be compensated for their suffering in this world. The discourse my respondents use is nevertheless not one of revenge, opposing the faithful (the mouridoullah) to the non-believers (the kafirs), but one grounded in social and historical arguments, where the migrants are still the heirs and living testimonies of the French colonial legacy in Africa, which has gone without any social and/or political restitution. The contradiction of being migrants in the lands of the infidels is not an issue for the residents, since they are first and foremost migrants. Their allegiance to Islam is testified by their observation of the compulsory pillars they can carry out at Foyer 93, such as the five daily prayers, Ramadan and almsgiving. As to the fulfilment of the pilgrimage to Mecca, al-hadji, which is the once-in-the-lifetime obligation for Muslims, the residents provide very mixed answers. There are those who are older and have been able to go, who thus think that everybody should abide by this principle, while younger residents, who have not, think that they will carry out the pilgrimage some time later in the future. Obviously, the condition of being trapped at Foyer 93, is not only endangering the possibility to abide by all the Islamic principles, but it has created a very hybrid role of migrant: these are men whose families are elsewhere and who have settled down in Paris in the face of both state and police harshness towards them, and hardships in housing arrangements. They have created their environment, where they can still live and pray, and send remittances home, when they can. The lexicon has changed: migrants in

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Paris now “visit home”, if their legal status is cleared, but permanent returns are very unlikely to take place. Migrants are cloistered within the limits of the community in Paris, if not of the foyer itself, a retreat constituted through fear of state interventionism as well as seen as being valuable in itself. In sum, theirs is a very stable experience in Paris and it has been so since the beginning of 21st century. The allegiance of the Muslim minority groups to the village of origin and to Islam has now a different meaning, as the Mouride faithful in the Île-de-France region show: they have detached from the administration in

Senegal, but meanwhile they are drawing on an Islamic universalism, intended to counter the French overreaching secularism, which is undermining them as individuals.

Future research might shed more light on issues related to sexuality and prostitution, unequivocally practised by the residents. My position at Foyer 93 as a female researcher made it impossible to investigate further. Likewise, the departure from Foyer 93 of the iron maker in charge of the central social and ceremonial rite of circumcision put a stop to my understanding of this ritual and of the relationship it fosters between Foyer 93 and the

Soninké community outside it.

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Glossary

Arabic, Soninké and Wolof words:

Aϊd el-fitr and aϊd el-kébir: the two Muslim celebrations marking respectively the end of

Ramadan (Muslim ritual fasting) and the commemoration of Abraham‟s sacrifice. The latter involves the ritual slaughter of a ram. In Senegal, aϊd el-kébir is referred to as tabaski.

Barkat: divine gift; this term is generally referred to as baraka and attributed to the saint

(wali) for his proximity to God. Barkat can broadly signify good luck as much as the power of the saints. Such power can metonymically be endowed to things, so that even the latter can “have” baraka.

(Al-)batin: means the Hidden reality and is one of the ninety-nine names of Allah.

Bidan: Arabo-Berber ethnic group found in the Hodh and Sahel area.

Caϊd (also qaid or alcade): a type of governorship found in North Africa and Moorish

Spain.

Ceddo: Wolof term for „warrior‟.

Daara: in Senegal, Mouride communities of single men (takder), who worked the fields under the direction of the marabout or his representative (diawrigne). The daaras still exist, even though urban dahiras and the talibés‟ networks are now the main feature of

Mouridism, both in Senegal and in the Diaspora.

Dahira: corresponds to the second phase of the Mouride history, which sees the community migrate to urban centres. The faithful felt the need to create urban networks, affiliating the talibés of one same marabout or simply those wishing to pray together in the same neighbourhood.

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Damel: title of the ruleror king of the Wolof Kingdom (1360-1890) in the North Western region of Cayor, Senegal.

Dhikr: remembrance of God by the ritual repetition of His Names. The dhikr ritual can be chanted or pronounced. Some Sufi orders carry out the dhikr by pronouncing the names

“internally”, in meditation (fiqr), others by complementing the meditation with music and dances. This Sufi ritual is spread throughout the world. Kourelis a Wolof term designating aparticular way of performing the dhikr.

Doff: Wolof term for „mad‟.

Duha: supererogatory praising prayer.

Fatò: Soninké word for „mad‟.

Griot (fem. griotte): in West Africa, the griots were a caste of people who used to chant praises as well as the genealogy of important families by heart. This tradition is still kept alive, so that the griots of renowned griot families are now community singers, contributing to festive and religious occasions with their chants.

Hadith (pl. ahādīth; lit. „discussion‟): the collection of narrations concerning the words and deeds of the prophet Mohammed.

Haqiqa: the divine truth, perfecting path. Sufis strive to perfect themselves to come into the presence of God through the purest application of the shar’iain the practice of Islam.

Hijab (lit. „covering‟): stands for the Muslim female practice of modesty, or way of dressing. The hiqab is the covering of the body and head. The burqa is the full covering of the body, head and face. The reference of hijab to head coverings (the headscarf) is recent.

Ijtihad (lit. „struggle‟; same root of „jihad‟): means innovation. It is the analysis of the problems not covered by the Qur‟an and the Hadith. In the early Muslim scholarly community, every jurist had the right to exercise such original thinking, but the growth of

308 legal schools prompted Sunnite Muslim authorities to declare that the principle legal issues had been settled by the 10th century. Sh‟ite Muslims hold in great considerations the mujtahids, those qualified to devise ijtihad.

(Salat al-)Istikhar (the „guidance prayer‟): is understood to stimulate premonitory dreams, anticipating God‟s will. It should be followed by a du’a (also preceded and followed by salutations to God‟s grace, and ablutions before sleeping. The istikhar prayer is resorted to when a choice is to be made or when embarking on something new. This is one form of divination.

Jinn (sing. jinni): spirits.

Ka gumme: Soninké leader of the ka, the productive units made of different households of one same lineage.

Kafir (pl. kuffār, from the root k-f-r, lit. „to cover up‟): who rejects God, infidel or pagan, but also unbeliever in the Islamic doctrine. These terms have become derogatory, thus kafir is now generally translated with the more nuanced „non-Muslim‟.

Kerr: Wolof term for „house‟.

Khadim (lit. „server‟) Rassoul (lit. „the one sent by God‟, meaning the Prophet): the saint who has been granted by Allah, for purity and faith, to be at the service of the prophet, so as to become like one of the latter‟s historical companions.

KhalifGénéral: head of the Mouride brotherhood, whose headquarter is based in Touba

(Senegal), the sacred town of the Mouridetalibés. Its mosque is also where Cheick Amadou

Bamba‟s tomb is located.

Khalwa (lit. „solitude‟): Sufi spiritual withdrawal, traditionally of forty days, during which a disciple practises extensive spiritual exercises under the direction of a master.

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Kharijite: general term for Muslims who dissociate from both the Sunni and the Shi‟ite

Muslim in the understanding of the historical Muslim community‟s leadership. The Sunni recognise the three Caliphs descending from the Prophet Mohammed. The Sh‟ite community adheres to the imamat, descending from the Caliph Ali, while the Kharijite first supported the Caliph Ali and then rejected him.

Koma cult: in the Mandinka mountains of Mali, a circle of initiated people linked to the jinn, the koma. They are responsible for guarding the group from foreign intrusions, for circumcising the male youth, and for protecting the community from the powerful witchcraft of women. The jinn of the koma cult are called komajinne.

Lasrar: magical knowledge.

Liguééy (lit. „work‟): Wolof term also used to indicate „sorcery‟.

Magal:Mouride commemoration of CAB‟s departure to exile in Gabon (September 1895).

Mande: group comprising the Bambara and Mandinka ethnic groups.

Marabout (murâbit,pl. murâbitûn) or cheick: it is used to identify the spiritual leader, often at the head of a Sufi lodge (zawuya), of which he is the initiator or whose teaching he is bound to perpetuate (as muqaddam).

Marifa: the mystical knowledge of the Sufi, contrasting with the ‘ilm, the doctrinal knowledge of the ulema.

Masjid (lit. “place of prostration”): mosque.

Mawlid (the terms moulid and mouloud are also in use):Muslim religious holiday celebrating the birthday of the prophet Mohammed. The mawlid was established in the tenth and 11th centuries. It is observed on the 12th day of Rabi al-awwal, the third month of the Muslim lunar calendar.

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Modu-Modu: Wolof term for „peddler‟. It derives its meaning from the name Modou, a very common one in Senegal. Thus, modu-modu stands for the phenonmenon of young businessmen selling their merchandise in the streets, now commonly found worldwide.

Mouridyya (from mouridoullah; lit. “aspirant to God”): Sufi branch of Islam, founded in Senegal by Cheick Amadou Bamba (1855-1927). Mouride is the faithful of the order.

Mujaddid (lit. „renovator‟): refers to a person who appears at the turn of every century of the Islamic calendar to revive Islam and restore it to its pristine purity. A mujaddid might be a saint (wali).

Nafs: the low instincts of the soul. It is an important concept in Islam and within Sufism in particular, wherein the supreme ontological reality is the metaphysical one, achieved through purification and detachment from the material world.

Qadi: judge ruling in accordance to the Shar‟ia.

Qasida: Sufi leader‟s collection of prayers and odes.

Qutb: the most eminent position in the hierarchy of the Saints: also Pole.

Raka: thecomplete cycle of prayer, consisting of 1) a standing position, 2) genuflection

(ruko), 3) prostration (sudjût) and 4) a sitting position (djuluss). The morning prayer

(subha) consists of two rakas; the evening prayer (salat al-maghreb) of three and the others (zuhr, asr and icha) of four rakas.

Sadaqa (pl. sadaqat): Alms, often in the form of animal sacrifice, given to avert misfortune. It is also used as a general term for donation.

Sas: Wolof term for „self-taxation‟, which differentiates from hadiya, the donation given to the marabout as a tangible sign of gratitude.

Salafyya: militant Islam, generally referred to as “radical Islam”. It originated in Egypt as a reformist movement opposed to the European colonial rule and advocated the rational

311 application of God‟s commandments in the light of general welfare. They also intended to modernise the Muslim world by catching up with the technologies of the West.

Serin (lit. „master‟) Touba (holy town of the Mourides): stands for CAB, founder of

Mouridism and of Touba, the sacred town of the Mourides. It hosts what is now the greatest mosque of West Africa and CAB‟s tomb.

Shari‟a (lit. “way”, “path”): formal law. It is the code of conduct of the Muslims, which they identify with both the Sunna and the Hadith of the Prophet Mohammed.

Silsila-baraka: the saint‟s lineage, supposedly inheriting the saint‟s baraka and thus entiltled to the leadership of the community of faith.

Sunna (pl. sunan; lit. “custom” or “usual practice”): in Muslim usage it refers to the sayings and living habits of the Prophet Muhammad as recorded in the Hadiths.

Tabligh: transnational religious movement, which was revived in 1926 by Muhammad

Ilyas al-Kandhlawi in India. It purports the idea of renovated Islam, not in the form of

“traditional custom”, but rather in that of a globalised Islam.

Tafakkur („act of deliberation‟, „pondering‟): first step into Islam, which is

“submission” to this truth, and thus the first obligation of a Muslim.

Talibé: Wolof term meaning Mouride believer.

Talim: education achieved through the Islamic sciences, the study of the Qur‟an, the

Sunna and the Hadith.

Tarbiyya: the esoteric science dedicated to the formation of the spirit through the purification of the soul (ishan) against the temptations of the bodily desires (nafs).

Tariqa (pl. turuq): Sufi order.

Tarqiyyah (lit. „ascension‟): the education of the youth through study and research, and through the idea of future leadership (hizbut). This focuses on the eligibility of the

312 successor based on his spiritual qualities and leadership competence, rather then on silsila- baraka.

Tasawwuf: Sufism or esotericism.

Tijanyya: Sufi order founded by Ahmed al-Tijani (1737-1815), who claimed his (and thus his order‟s, al-tariqa al-Muhammadyya) direct link with the Prophet. He asserted his supremacy over other Sufi saints, as Mohammed had over other prophets. He made the repudiation of affiliation to other taruq thecondition for initiation to his own tariqa.

Ulema (sing.Ālim; lit. „scholar‟): Muslim scholars arbiters of the Shar‟a law, often versed in legal jurisprudence (fiqh). They were appointed by the Caliphs to represent the spiritual knowledge of the Muslim State.

Ummah: worldwide Islamic community.

Wahabi: movement founded by Mohammed Abd al-Wahhab (1703-1792) in Arabia. It promoted religious revival as strict adherence to the teaching of Islam based on the Qur‟an and the hadith, without resorting to their allegorical interpretation. From the beginning of the XX cent. Egyptian ulema of the Wahabyya school became fierce opponents of the Sufi turuq and resented the latter‟s popularity.

(Al-)zahir: means the Manifest and is one of the ninety-names of Allah.

(Al-)zhakat: the annual tithe required of Muslims. This is one of the four pillars of Islam, together with (al-)hadji (pilgrimage to Mecca), al-salat (prayer), (al-)ramadan (ritual fasting during the lunar month of Ramadan).

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French Terms

Banlieue: the meaning of banlieue overlaps with but is also wider than that of “outskirts of a town” or “suburb”. It stands for the department (administrative division of a region) surrounding the capital city of a region and including smaller communes.

Beur: organised movement of French youths of Algerian origin, claiming civil rights and political recognition. The movement was at the centre of the uprising of the Parisian banlieues (early 1980s). The „beurs’ are a slang categorization for „Arabs‟.

Communautarisme: community way of life; it is used in French with the pejorative meaning of “community drift”.

Délégué: representative.

Droit commun: civic rights common to all; it stands for the French “social contract”.

Foyers de travailleurs migrants: French housing for male migrant workers.

Guérisseur: healer.

Laϊcité: secularism.

Maison: house.

Parc social: social housing.

Sans-papier: undocumented migrant.

Taudis (noun, sing. and pl.): slum.

Tirailleurs: Senegalese soldiers recruited to fight for France during WWII.

French titles

M. = Mr

Mme = Mrs

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Appendix I. Legal pathways to formal citizenship.

According to the November 2 1945 ruling (concerning the migrants‟ conditions of entrance

and residency) and the November 26 2003 law (managing migration and migrants‟

residency and nationality), migrants, upon their entry to France, must have their passport

and visa in order, and have documents declaring their reason for entering the country and

justifying the means by which they will finance themselves, together with documents

concerning their professional activity and proof of health and eligibility for social benefits

(2003 November 26 law). With respect to social provision, following the 2003 December

31 amendment, migrants who reside for the first three months in France without

interruption and are illegal can obtain the AME (Aide Medical d‟État: State Medical Help),

whose cost is covered by the State and paid to the CNAMTS (French National Health

Insurance Fundfor Salaried Workers). Through this system, migrants can turn to the public

hospitals in case of urgent need. Interestingly, if the migrant is legal during the first three

months of his sojourn, he has neither the right to the CMU39 nor to the AME schemes

(unless they are “eligible on medical grounds”, cf. note n. 6). To receive the AME cover, in

sum, it is vital that the applicant (both new and returning applicants) has lived in France.

The fulfilment of such requirement is not made difficult, since any means to demonstrate it

is accepted (telephone and rent bills, proofs of address such as housing certificates and

letters, EDF accounts and so on). When unable to produce the necessary documentation,

the applicant still has the right to access the A&E hospital units throughout Paris.

39 CMU: Couverture Maladie Universelle “provides French health insurance to those not otherwise covered through their employment or private insurance.” “Only those with at least 5 years legal residence in France, those eligible on medical grounds, or other 'accident of life', and those who qualify as a result of cessation of their business or employment, can join the CMU. Foreign students studying in France also have access to the CMU” (http://www.french-property.com). 331

The certificate of residency is delivered by the mairie d’arrondissement40. Therefore, the

local mayor can turn the applications down when they are incomplete, inaccurate or the

landlord/host has provided unsatisfactory proofs. In these cases, the mayor can ask the

police and the OMI (Office de Migrations Internationales) to carry out further

investigations. In 2007, a new migration ministry called Ministère de l'Immigration, de

l'Intégration de l'Identité Nationaleet du Développement Solidaire was created, while the

OMI was transformed into the Office Français de l‟Immigration et de l‟Intégration and in

2009. Eric Besson initiated a national debate in his speech addressing the new ministry, in

line with the principles outlined by Nicolas Sarkozy in his presidential campaign. These

saw the resurgence of new “communautarismes” (community enclaves), signalled by the

burka affair (the matter of the religious symbols in schools and elsewhere, such as the

hijiab worn by Muslim women), as one which France and its secularism cannot tolerate if

they want to “reaffirm the pride of Republican values and of being French”

(http://www.debatidentitenationale.fr). Clearly, what is at stake is not the aforementioned

universal right to receive medical treatment, which is, in fact, safeguarded, but access to

French citizenship, understood as the universal civic dimension, whose cultural French

prerequisite is underlined. An example of this is the work carried out by Afrique Partenaire

Service (henceforth APS) whose aim is that of legalizing the migrants‟ presence in France

on medical grounds, when it can be demonstrated that the treatment can only be availed of

in France.

As described above (see chapter two), APS is the association run by a Malian woman,

Bintou, who started her career in the social sector as translator and cultural mediator

40Mairie d’arrondissemt: the borough town hall. In big cities like Paris, Lyon and Marseille the town hall has various sites/departments located in each borough of the town, which fall under the administrative central one, usually referred to as Ville de Paris (the Town [Hall] of Paris). 332 between patients of West African origin and the medical staff. The need for such a figure dated back to the 1970s in the context of the new female migration to France due to family reunification, thus creating a need for maternal and infantile medical care in particular

(Sargent et al., 2009b, p. 101). Bintou continued to offer her services until she created APS in 1991 with the help of her French colleague, the social worker, Claudette Bodin. The recipient of APS‟s services is the migrant population. APS covers everything that concerns migrants with regards to their health care and access to resources. The main part of APS‟s work focuses on the bureaucratic and administrative processes through which migrants can become eligible for the CMU and AME, for example, on providing the information which this process requires (legal advice, linguistic competence and so forth) and mediating between the migrant population and the relevant institutions (employers, schools administration and so forth). APS is a vital resource for those who need help with their paperwork so as to benefit from medical schemes (follow-up treatment after an accident at work, retirement benefits and so forth). Moreover, APS is engaged with a project aiming at helping those women who “want to get out of polygyny”, through social and juridical support, but also very importantly, by helping them in the search for new accommodation, in obtaining a residence permit when needed and in maintaining their links with their family back home, so that they are less isolated and alone following the end of their marriage. APS is now facing huge financial cuts from the government, so that even its own existence is at risk, let alone their ability to meet the demands of migrants, which are likely to remain unsatisfied. Grassroots associations such as APS and the like are subject to changes in the political mood, and therefore, either financial support or cuts are a response to the political agenda of the moment in addressing social issues. During the crisis of the suburbs in France (Oct-Nov 2005), poverty in the banlieues emerged as the key cause of

333 the “flare-ups”, as opposed to what was voiced by the “successive governments of all political complexions” namely that the problem was the migrants‟ inability to integrate because of their cultural distance (Hargreaves, 2005). Such a „distance‟ translated the idea of an identity crisis, arising out of the perceived impossibility of integrating the Muslim population in France. The debate on the integration of Muslim minority groups in France is slowly moving from cultural arguments to others that assess the practical problems of the minority groups, particularly in the suburbs or in sub-areas such as the foyers, which are inhabited only by minority groups, in terms of social and political considerations. Hence, the alienation, ghettoization and discrimination undergone by minority groups and working class people have gradually come to the fore.

As Hargreaves (2005) has pointed out, crises in the suburbs and popular upheavals are not a novelty in France, yet ethnic monitoring has been a taboo until recently, so that addressing issues such as racism and marginalization would have required the recognition that the French population is not one and undivided as the Republic slogan would want it, but that differences and inequalities exist socially and that the time is ripe to address them in the public arena. In the aftermath of the riots in the banlieues, Prime Minister

Dominique de Villepin addressed the General Assembly with a new plan to improve the job opportunities of the people in the banlieues, thus tackling the specific problem of soaring levels of unemployment, since applicants from the banlieues are often not recruited because of their Arab family name or because they are seen to be living in the suburbs, both being synonyms for poor education and marginalization. De Villepin also nominated the sociologist Azouz Begag as minister of Equal Opportunity, making him “France‟s firstever cabinet minister of North African migrant descent” (ibid). As Hargreaves reminds

334 us, it was in 2005 that the HALDE (Haute Autorité de Lutte Contre les Discriminations et pour l‟Égalité) was constituted together with programmes designed to improve education in the so called “sensitive areas”, the ZEPs (Zones Urbaines Sensibles), where “twenty- seven per cent [of the residents] have two parents of migrant origin” (Laurence et al, p.

186). This way, on the one hand, “positive action” has become part of the political language and the programme intending to promote more equitable chances for the

“marginal groups of the suburbs”; on the other hand, the superficial understanding of what is a complex issue (both social and ethnic) reinforces the general confusion about the ongoing perception of marginalised groups, the identity of which changes according to contingent social necessity or fear. The marginalised in France were once the Jews (during the Vichy government), then the Italian and Poslish migrants, and more recently the

Portuguese. Are the Muslims just another example? As Strathern (1987) acutely remarked with regards to her field of analysis (namely the social submission of Melanesian women), the issue about social inequality is not so much that it occurs, but why it affects certain categories of people rather than others. Noiriel pointed out (1988, p. 15) how scientific interest stems from common concerns, which make certain subjects possible and others impossible to investigate. It was not until 1970s that migration erupted as a major theme of sociological analysis and the subject of doctoral theses (p. 16). Likewise, the September

11th terrorist attacks in America have awoken an interest in Islam and in the Muslim communities, which the social sciences are expected to study more effectively.

Since its inception, French Nationality policy was concerned with the naturalization and

"integration of its second-generation residents", naturalization being only "an accidental mode of integration” (Weil, 2008, p. 53; p.55). The Old Regime had been overwhelmed by

335 demographic issues - low population rates - and therefore with the problem of recruiting as many young males as possible for military service. As a result, a system was devised so as to include all the people of foreign origin who lived or ran businesses in France, and who had been previously exempted from military conscription because they did not hold French nationality. The measure had been considered unjust with regard to French nationals.

“With the Civil Code in 1803, Nationality became … a personal right” (p. 168). The ius sanguinis governed the legal right to being French from immediate post-Revolution France through to 1803, when the new Nationality Code, amended over the years, provided the ius soli right. As Weil's historical analysis suggests, it was when France came to perceive itself as a country of migration rather than emigration and colonial expansion, that the problem of defining Nationals and foreigners become salient. The Franco-Prussian defeat (1870) impelled the government to implement the new Nationality Code, embodying the ius soli principle. This became a modern and universalist allegiance to France, now a Nation based on a social contract, rather than on a medieval attachment to the state, which regarded its people as subjects – as was still the case in other European countries such as England and

Germany. Indeed, Germany only issued the ius soli right in 2000. This principle in fact underlines the role of social factors and the “assimilative” character of the French Nation, able to integrate those members born to foreign members into its social network and culture, through its institutions and civil life. The role of the army and the school in French society has in fact always been considered paramount in creating social bonds and a French identity.

Current debates intensify on the role of the school (Zanten, 1997) in the so-called difficult boroughs in Paris as in other towns of France (Lyon, Marseille for example) in which

336 sizable Muslim minority groups concentrate. Zanten argues that cultural assimilation is thus achieved, but social integration is not, in fact, “the Republican model was first conceived as a way of integrating regional groups rather than immigrants” (p. 353). As we have seen, the latter are most likely to live in the suburbs of Paris, where children are likely to attend second-class schools, thereby reinforcing discussions about their sub-culture or deviant behaviour (Rassial, 1998). Racism is first of all a matter of perception and interests, and at times these reinforce each other. During the Vichy Republic in fact, notwithstanding the ius soli, nationality was withdrawn from French Jews, while Algerian

Muslim were subjects to the “native code”, notwithstanding that they held French nationality (before its independence Algeria was part of France). Therefore, the ius soli in itself is not a proof of the openness of French universalism. Nevertheless, French

Nationality law has progressed since its first formulations in order to protect women, spouses and foreigners, once discriminated against, while keeping, in its different legal adjustments, traces of the previous legislation. “Today the French are French by virtue of ius sanguinis, ius soli, marriage or residence” (Weil, op. cit., p. 252).

French Muslims have been present in France for at least a century, so that migration and

Islam are certainly not new to the French social scene. My focus on first-generation migrants has not been random: they are not French and they may be illegal. In debates about assimilation policies, especially after the November 2005 social unrest, and the promotion of initiatives directed to the “disaffected youth of the banlieues” (as the vox populi goes), France has still manifested an old grudge and fear of Islam and the Muslims.

How does French republicanism “fine-tune the self-proclaimed universalism of its citizen model”? (Laurence, op. cit., p. 269). In my view, its non-ethnic approach to the different

337 social realities has only increased differentiation and opposition, since this model has not been able to create the common ground with which all citizens would be able to identify.

My respondents, both Mouride and Soninkés, adopt an Islamic universalism in Europe, shadowing the underlying traditional discourse, in an attempt to bridge the gap with the dominant French republican discourse, in which they are clearly positioned at the weak end

– subdominant and marginal - of an unbalanced power relationship. Whilst their understanding of God as the ultimate source of all things, justifies almost everything both a priori and afortiori, it also shows my respondents‟ need to use a language able to trespass across ideological or cultural barriers. In other words, what would be the use of conveying customary and ethnic internal rulings, spiritual affiliations and practices to an audience which considers them “in symbiosis with nature”? I would like to recall Sarkozy‟s speech at the University of Dakar in July 2007, in which he addressed the Dakarois youth by offering his “cooperation”, should they want to choose to be part of history, since: “the

African drama is that Africans have not entirely been part of history. For millennia, African countries, which have lived according to seasons [!], where the ideal life is to be in harmony with nature, only know the eternal following of times, paced by the endless repetition of the same gestures and words” (my translation from the French). According to

Sarkozy, Senegalese youth can still draw power from its “métissage”, mixing with the

European culture and people, so that they will create a more human global world. President

Sarkozy, who was still very popular among the Muslim youth before his presidency, denouncing the isolation and backwardness of the banlieues and advocating positive action in such milieus, was the same political figure who triggered the riots in 2005.

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Can we say that France has managed to “recognise” French diversity in the pursuit of its assimilation? Islam, in the context of the riots, even though advocated as a possible cause fuelling the rage of the rioters, did instead play no part. Muslim groups such as Tabligh, regarded, together with the Salafis and Wahabis, as among the most conservative/puritanical, are not popular in the banlieues (Cesari, 2005).

II. The indigènes are back: the 2005 crisis of the banlieues.

In the midst of my fieldwork (October-November 2005), dramatic events took place, which led to the death of Ziad Benn (aged seventeen) and Banou Traoré (fifteen) in the Parisian suburb of Clichy-Sous-Bois. This tragic episode triggered the riots, which spread throughout the Parisian banlieues and other towns in France. The then French Interior

Minister N. Sarkozy, who was said to be keeping an eye on his presidential campaign (he is now president) later promoted a “regularization” (i.e. acquisition of legal status) of the migrant parents (Aug. 2006), whose children were born in France and attending school.

Only one third of such migrants were granted “regularization”, while the others were threatened with expulsion. The same minister maintained that polygamy was the source of the problem for the integration and regularization of the Muslim migrant population.

Interestingly, during the years of the French economic boom that did not seem to constitute an issue. Moreover, he proposed a bill to parliament suggesting that medical staff in public hospitals informed the police as to the legal status of their patients. It was also Sarkozy who dubbed the people of the banlieues as “scum” and the banlieues as areas needing to be cleaned up by a “power hose” (the infamous Karchan, brand of an anti-parasite hose), this way equating the banlieuesards to verminous insects. The banlieues are located immediately after the ring road, the périphérique, which runs around Paris, just like a

339 fortress might be protected by its walls. It seems that not only a geographic separation divides them from Paris: transport links to the main services, such as schools, hospitals and the central urban area, are irregular. It is in the banlieues that the majority of French people of migrant descent - mostly Algerian - live. Interestingly, a proper debate about the 2005 riots did not develop, beyond the news reported in the press and scholarly analyses on H-

Net forums and academic seminars held after the event, for example at the EHESS, to which I refer.

Few anthropologists and social scientists have addressed issues of discrimination and racism in France and even fewer have considered the banlieues as an anthropological field of investigation (Bazin et al., 2006). Bazin et al. see two reasons for this: the first is epistemological and the second ideological. According to the first, anthropology in France is conceived as the discipline studying “distant societies”; the second is “an ideological bias, which has made anthropologists reluctant to acknowledge the existence of discrimination and other exclusionary practices within their own society” (p. 16), stemming from the universalism of the republican model. After these authors, the French anthropologist Gérard Althabe previously talked of “two kinds of anthropology developed in France” (ibid), one addressing the distant societies, a trend institutionalised by the weight of Lévi-Strauss‟ structural anthropology, and another the rural tradition of France itself.

In Dufoix‟s analysis (2005), the banlieues can be understood as forms of Foucauldian heterotopias. Dufoix elaborates this concept, which Foucault had adopted to describe the colonies, as a thinking tool to study the banlieues. Certainly the residents of the Parisian

340 suburbs cannot be equated to the “indigènes of the colonies” (ibid), nevertheless the latter can be regarded as the migrants‟ (and ex-migrants)‟ forefathers. Dufoix construes the political exclusionary politics of the Republic through its recent political agenda concerning the “recognition” of its colonial past. The acknowledgment of the wrongs committed, and which should be redressed in the present, is articulated through slavery, colonialism and migration. With respect to the latter, Dufoix notices that, while it should not necessarily be linked to the previous two, it could instead imply the recognition of sub- groups in society and of their rights, which instead does not occur. She provides significant examples of this process, including: 1) the transformation of the Museum of the Colonies into the National Museum of Immigration in 2007 and 2) the 19 January 2005 law which called for the recognition of the positive role played by France in the colonies. The newspaper Le Monde published a first petition against this law, which was signed by six historians outraged by its absurdity, to which thousands of other scholars signed up later. I could add to this the Quai Branly museum, which opened its doors in 2006 and seemed to reintroduce, in a rather modernist and revised version, the old Museum of the Colonies, which had just been replaced. This museum hosts collections of exclusively non-European objects from the Americas, Africa, Oceania and Asia and significantly, and a collection is hosted in honour of Claude Lévi-Strauss. The “recognition” process of the Republic seemed to float from self-blame (e.g. about slavery) to self-celebration, rather inconsistently affirming its awareness of the past, without any sign that such knowledge might be used to ameliorate the current lives of people of a socially and ethnically diverse

France. The discourse linking the colonial past to migration is also adopted by my respondents, who, in fact, see in the two phenomena simply an historical passage, but not the demise of the Africans‟ subjugation. The continuity of the unfair colonial rule into the

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French discriminatory policy towards migrants now is recurrent among the views of my respondents (both the Mourides and the residents of Foyer 93), who conceive of the former as the logical antecedent of the latter. For the older generation of migrants colonization is a sad memory, experienced in their youth through their parents‟ life stories, while for the younger ones it is a lived experience of exclusion and the prolonging of their forefathers‟ experiences. My respondents sense bitterly that their fathers contributed to the wealth and reconstruction of France, only to leave their sons to struggle and undergo similar marginalization and racism. This is also the case for young people born in France, who are of Malian or Senegalese descent.

Moussa, aged forty-nine, Senegalese and a Mouride, living in the nearby banlieue of

Sarcelle, explains that discrimination is first of all embodied in the geographical separation of the people, so that migrants are confined to specific areas, the banlieues or the foyers, wherein the French are respectively either a minority or completely absent. Moussa is a nurse in a geriatric hospital of Sarcelle. He has found it very hard to settle in Paris. He went through the experience of getting to Europe by boat, so undergoing exploitation by the so called passeurs, those who bring migrants illegally from the coasts of Mauritania or

Morocco to Spain. The passeurs obtain visas for them by colluding with Western embassies and consulates. Moussa lived for some time in the foyers, until he found a job, which gradually allowed him to move to the banlieue and live on his own. Later he was able to receive his wife, also Senegalese. Moussa now has a very comfortable two-storey flat, where he lives with his wife, four children and mother-in-law. Moussa‟s migration to

France is still a success story, yet his accounts of the banlieue, of his youth and eventually

342 of migration resonate with colonial and migratory exploitation, post-colonial discrimination and with the imposed isolation of the minority groups. Angrily, he says:

“The banlieues are almost entirely populated by Muslims. These are the people who have

been put aside, rejected by Paris, tucked away altogether. Migrants‟ sons go to school,

study and some are successful, but then they won‟t find a job. Those who find a job will

look for a house and won‟t find it. Others can‟t even send their children to school. This is

unbearable! Some children drop out of school later on in their studies; some attend

professional courses or orientation programmes that won‟t give them any future. Young

people in the banlieues become butchers, hairdressers and secretaries. This is also the case

for my children.”

More emphatically, he continues:

“The colonists came and told us what to do with our country and how to live. They

imposed their rule and told us they had come to transform us. France has colonised almost

half of the African continent. Even though we got our independence, we still depend on

them. It will never end. You know, I was coming back home from work today and thought

of my father. He went to war; he arrived at Montecatini, in Italy. I still have the picture

from his military service: he‟s portrayed with a little boy, the boy is white. He then came

here [France]. Sixty per cent of them did never return: they died! Those who had the

chance to leave did so without any pension. Women, who stayed home, were forced to

weave the wool, which would be sent to the French soldiers. My mother has a callus on her

finger because of that; like all the women in the village. Those few men still in the country

had to work in the peanut plantations or extract oil from it, again to be sent to Europe!”

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“During the reconstruction, in the aftermath of the war, those who built the underground in

Paris were Algerians, Moroccans, Tunisians and Senegalese. At the beginning there only

were two lines. They worked to build the roads and they still live in the foyers. The

employers still recruit illegal migrants, because they are a cheap and disposable labour

force. If France decided to send home all of them as they warn, the French economy would

collapse. Now it is high time to share the wealth we contributed to creating. They can‟t

stop people from coming, even if they create barriers, migration will never end.”

Both the Mourides of Taverny and the Soninkés of Foyer 93 explained the 2005 riots as a foreseeable threat, smouldering under cover, yet in front of everyone like a public disease for which nobody has ever become responsible. This observation is also shared by Cesari

(2005), surprised at the media astonishment vis-à-vis the riots, since indeed she reminds us that riots had started already in France in 1981 in the suburb of the Minguette, Lyon. Cesari argues that the violence is certainly caused by the degradation of the suburbs, that is, due to economic reasons, but also because it involves only second-generation migrants “from the former colonies of the Maghreb”. This is why the sense of alienation and inequality is accrued and exacerbated. My respondents view the riots as the most predictable and obvious of the possible reactions to the situation. The colonial presence of France in Mali and Senegal is the argument by which my respondents now resent their marginalisation in

France, as if oppression in the past and being at the borders in the Metropolis now were the promulgation of the same discriminating power. Many during the riots proffered comments about the role of their fathers in the building of France after World War II, only to be forgotten and see their children duped, as it were, by an unjust postcolonial masquerade.

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During the riots, the community were already feeling that they were victims of racism, when two further episodes occurred: the first was the launch of a tear gas grenade by the police next to the mosque of Clichy-Sous-Bois and the second was N.Sarkozy‟s plea to the imams to pronounce a fatwa (Islamic law issued on particular circumstances) to subdue the rioters. As to the first, my respondents think that rather than for it to go unnoticed, a formal apology was due. It happened on a Friday when people were gathered at the mosque to pray. Supposedly, commotion spread among the police and some rioters – an inquiry failed to shed light on this – prompting the former to throw the gas in the proximity of the mosque, that is, at a sacred place and time for the community. As to N.Sarkozy‟s demand, it overstated the Muslim community‟s involvement in the acts of violence over those days and therefore it implied that they were to blame. The Muslim community understandably responded by criticizing the generalizations made on their account, confusing Islam with social discontent. Truly, the youth in the banlieues suffer from isolation and the lack of reference points, such as schools, culture and leisure centres, work opportunities and so on.

They receive second-class education, live in rough areas and spend most of their time on the streets. The Muslim clerics, who voiced their concern during the riots, addressed the shortcomings of the laity, rather than of Islam, that is, of a society conceived beyond spirituality. The older generation of Muslims at Foyer 93 laments and fears the dilution of religious practice, so that to point to Islam as the cause fuelling the youth was at least dubious. The official political discourse lumped together the people of the banlieues as if indeed they were a homogenous group living in the suburbs, sharing culture, religious creed, political strategies, age group and origin. The youth of both migrant descent (from the Maghreb and West Africa) and otherwise (white) have been equally responsible for the acts of violence. Yet, the managing of the riots as a problem related to migration and Islam

345 showed the shortcomings of the lack of ethnic monitoring, which would have provided more serious understanding of the reality on the ground.

The riots in the banlieues, even though not specifically part of my scope of analysis, provided the ground for discussions about migration, second generation migration, ethnicity and social reality as these are understood by my respondents of both communities, Senegalese and Soninké. In fact, they felt they were drawn into the discussion because Islam had become the main topic, yet they made differentiations which were later confirmed by both the police investigations and the limited anthropological debate that followed the upraising. The residents at Foyer 93 made clear that even though

Islam was a canny way of shedding light over the phenomenon by providing some social characteristics (e.g. the supposed Muslim migrants), it nevertheless explained very little of what was unfolding before the eyes of the entire world. Migrants from West Africa may well be Muslim, yet a very small minority of them lives in the banlieues. Roy (2005) classifies the 2005 riots in the banlieues as “a ghetto youth revolt”, an uprising from the

“destitute neighbourhoods”, where an incident with the police generally triggers resentment against the Establishment, its racism and discrimination, coalescing the rioters around a leader, the caïd. Nonetheless, Roy continues, “there are no community leaders, either traditional or appointed by the community, which means that the caïds, often local drug-dealers, have a lot of influence” (cf. 1). As to the point of those concerned in the revolt, Kamara, a resident of Foyer 93, expresses his view:

“We aren‟t French, we aren‟t involved in this. They [the politicians] just do and undo

things to their taste. We work for our community and do our thing. Why should we care

about the riots? They push people to the limit until it‟s too much. The youth in the

banlieues are not happy. That‟s why they are revolting. But they are French. It‟s not us.” 346

The imam of Foyer 93 puts forward the idea that if indeed Islam were practised in the banlieues, then the youngsters would have acted with more sense and not through violence.

Community and traditional leaders still are a point of reference for the youth. The Mouride

Islamic Centre of Taverny is an example. During weekends the talibés, young and not so young attend the centre to chant the dikhr, spend time together, while discussing CAB, helping in maintenance works or eating together after prayer. The Mouride order could not possibly become the leading movement for a revolt in the streets, both in terms of numbers, resources and inspirational standpoint. In fact, when the Mouride Islamic Centre of Aulnay improvised a march in the street of the commune to “come out” and bring CAB‟s message to the people, Taverny completely disapproved of it, did not participate and thought of it as a masquerade. Djibril, who lives in the banlieue and attends the local mosque, explained that throughout the revolt, all imams addressed their congregation exhorting them to stay calm and to stay away from the streets. Data on the affiliations or on the religion practiced by the rioters were not provided - which would have been impossible given the lack of an ethnic minority understanding - yet, relying on what my respondents argued, the rioters did not fight in the name of Allah. Moreover, Roy (2005) argues that more militant Islamic groups such as the above mentioned UOIF does not recruit from the “drops-outs” of the banlieues. There are instead other groups, such as the Salafis and the Tablighs, which purport an idea of renovated Islam, opposed to the Western style of life and street life, not in the form of “traditional custom”, but rather in that of a globalised Islam. In sum, he maintains, by referring to Sageman‟s work (2004), that social background is not the key element to radical Islam, and that reading the 2005 revolt in the suburbs through the “grid of Islam”, left out “its social and economic dimension”, or rather, I might add, it exposed the Republican exclusionary way of addressing it.

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In the end, even though the people concerned with the riots were those belonging to the so-

called “second generation”, meaning French of migrant descent (mostly from the

Meghreb), my respondents, who would normally dissociate from them on ethnic, religious

and statutory grounds, felt drawn into the discussion and to sympathize with them because

of Islam, reinforcing the much feared phenomenon of communautarisme, or community

drift, over which the French intelligentsia think they have no control. Islam can indeed

become the cohesive element for the most disparate layers of the Muslim community in

France, once the latter feel under attack. This way, Islam becomes the primary form of

identification, even though people from the Maghreb and West Africa keep otherwise

separate in their practice of Islam and everyday life. In conclusion:

● There is an obvious difference in explanation or justification in the discourses espoused by

the French majority and the Muslim communities – such that the two discourses appear to

be irreconcilable.

● French secular society seems unable to look upon the migrant community they host in

structures such as the foyers and to differentiate between religiously motivated and

political or economic riots as based not on a religious ideology, but on the frustration of an

ethnic minority to whom equal opportunities are not granted.

● There are different levels of political “consciousness” such that religious radicalization

appears to be unlikely if the whole of the religious community is considered. This

supposed radicalization does not appear to take place at ground level. Nonetheless, an

uprising from a fringe of French disaffected youth has been used as an excuse to propose

repressive and draconian measures of social control.

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● The main body of the West African community appears to be, in my analysis,

fundamentally conservative and dismayed by the uprising, due to their fundamental need to

maintain economic viability. This is, ultimately, their overt aim: to maintain their cultural

and religious identity with as little conflict as possible, so that living, working in France

and being able to send money back home can be safely maintained.

● Interethnic separation is fostered between the Muslim communities of West and North

Africa origin by a form of rivalry on who holds primacy as the best Muslim. The Mouride

community expresses its reasons with the pride of the tariqa, heir of CAB the Khadim

Rassoul, the server of the Prophet; his intellectual wisdom and baraka of saintly man was

celebrated even among the Arab community and brought him to the zenith of his era. The

Soninkés instead draw on social arguments to explain how their Islamic practice is of a

better quality compared to the Arab community.

349