“What ‘I’ Cannot Say: Testifying of Trauma through Translation”

Dissertation

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate School of The Ohio State University

By

Heidi Brown, M.A.

Graduate Program in French and Italian

The Ohio State University

2014

Dissertation Committee:

Jennifer Willging, Advisor

Danielle Marx-Scouras

Maurice Stevens

Cheikh Thiam

Copyright by

Heidi Brown

2014

Abstract

This dissertation proposes a new theory of translation to explain how trauma testimony is performed by survivors who have experienced a death of their selves. It shows that certain 20th century French and Francophone authors translate their voices across languages, literary genres, and bodies (both human and animal) in order to testify of trauma when they are no longer able to bear witness in the first-person.

The two French works studied—Journal (2008) by Hélène Berr and La Douleur [The

War] (1985) by Marguerite Duras—exhibit translations by the authors to different subject- positions within themselves. Berr translates across languages to negotiate between different socio-linguistically constructed identities and cites English literature to speak in her stead when she is no longer able to voice her experiences. On the other hand, Duras translates across different literary genres (autobiography, auto-fiction, and fiction) in order to recreate a sense of self and increase her capacity for emotional expression.

The two Francophone works studied—Djamila Boupacha (1962) by Simone de

Beauvoir and Gisèle Halimi and Le passé devant soi [The Past Ahead] (2008) by Gilbert

Gatore—exhibit translation movements across bodies. Djamila Boupacha translates her voice to Gisèle Halimi, her Tunisian-French lawyer, and to Simone de Beauvoir, a French feminist author, in order to testify of the torture she endured during the Algerian War. Each time that Boupacha’s testimony is re-voiced, it is transformed due to differences in the three women’s social positioning. Gatore translates his identity across a series of fictional selves—each of which exists in the imagination of the previous one—in order to verbalize

ii the unsayable and the unknowable experiences of the 1994 genocide in Rwanda. While a translation to human bodies allows him to express the unsayable, translation onto animal bodies is necessary to express the unknowable.

In all four works, the first translation movement creates a new self who approximates the original subject before it was destroyed; it is marked by strength, agency, and increased emotional expression. Afterwards, a second translation movement occurs to create a self who mirrors the destroyed being. The new self is characterized by vulnerability, destruction, and death. Importantly, however, from this vantage point, it is possible to express what remains inaccessible from the original subject-position. This tripartite configuration allows the survivor to recreate a stable identity, attribute meaning to the etiological event, and process trauma.

iii

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Dr. Jennifer Willging for your close readings of multiples drafts, your generous support and encouragement, and the exceptional guidance you have provided.

Thank you to Dr. Cheikh Thiam for your invaluable comments in the dissertation workshop, for pushing me to think more critically, and for helping me to become a better writer. Thank you to Dr. Danielle Marx-Scouras for your advice, feedback, and support, and for introducing me to so many texts that I love. Thank you to Dr. Maurice Stevens for the way that you listen to people and texts, and for both the guidance and freedom you gave me during my independent studies so that I can write about what is most important to me. Thank you to

Dr. Sarah-Grace Heller for your comments that were instrumental in shaping this project early on. Thank you to Douglas Roberts, Adrianne Barbo, Jaleh Sharif, and Clare Balombin for your feedback and moral support as fellow dissertators. Thank you to Dr. Angèle Kingué and Dr. Philippe Dubois for your continual support and presence, without which I could not write anything. Thank you to Dr. Scott Myers, Dr. Gilbert Hab, Dr. Salome Fouts, and Marion

Busingye for answering my questions about Kinyarwanda and Swahili. Thank you also to

Sarah Schultz for keeping me on track.

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Vita

2008…………………………………………………………….B.A. French, Bucknell University

2010…………………………………………………………….M.A. French, The Ohio State University

2011 to present...... ………………………………….Graduate Teaching Associate, Department of

French and Italian, The Ohio State University

Fields of Study

Major Field: French and Italian

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Table of Contents

Abstract…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..ii

Acknowledgements………………………………………………………………………………………………………...iv

Vita………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………....v

List of Figures..………………………………………………………………………………………………………………vii

Chapter 1: Introduction………………………………………………………………………………………...………….1

Chapter 2: Translating Across Languages in Journal by Hélène Berr…………………………………21

Chapter 3: Translating across literary genres in La Douleur by Marguerite Duras…...………..54

Chapter 4: Torture and Translation in Djamila Boupacha……………………………………………..…...93

Chapter 5: Translation and Recursion in Le passé devant soi by Gilbert Gatore………………..131

Chapter 6: Conclusion…………………………………………………………………………………………………..173

Bibliography………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..178

vi

List of Figures

Figure 1. Translation as Testimony…………………………………………………………………………………..4

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Chapter 1: Introduction

Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub, two major scholars in the field of trauma studies, both conceptualize of survivor testimony in spatial terms. Felman understands survivor testimony as coming from an “utterly unique and irreplaceable topographical position with respect to an occurrence” (297). Laub considers trauma testimony to be a movement in which the survivor transmits a story to the hearer—literally putting it outside of him or herself—in order to take it back in a more integrated, less problematic way (69). While these models do much to explain the dynamics of testimony, a limitation is that they both conceptualize of the witness as a stationary figure. As such, they do not take into account the possibility of a survivor translating his or her voice to different positions within the same body, or from one body to another, if it is no longer possible to bear witness in the first person. It is important to theorize what occurs outside the limits of first-person testimony because some survivors experience their selves as having been destroyed by trauma. An analysis of translation strategies used in such instances will help to understand better how trauma is processed and how the self is (re)constructed.

This dissertation creates a new model of translation in order to explain how certain

20th century French and Francophone authors translate their identities across languages, literary genres, and bodies in order to bear witness of trauma when they are no longer able to do so in the first-person. Taking into account Maria Tymoczko’s postcolonial critique of translation studies, it broadens the concept of translation to include the etymologies, cognates, and histories of the word “translate” in the languages associated with the four

1 texts studied (French, English, Arabic, and Kinyarwanda). I argue that differences in translation strategies point to divergent understandings of what the self is, how trauma is experienced, and how testimony can be performed.

The four literary works examined are 20th century French and Francophone texts written between 1939 and 2009. This seventy-year period is punctuated by numerous large-scale catastrophic events and unprecedented types of warfare, prompting new research on psychological trauma, as well as unique responses from writers. While medical or psychological studies on trauma are important for their generalizability across a population, literary works allow for a deeper and more complex understanding of specific cases. It is particularly important to study those texts that do not fit models of survivor testimony because they bring to light presuppositions and limitations in current understandings. Ultimately, these limit-cases provoke the creation of new models that are broad enough to include them within the scope of their boundaries.

The two French works studied—Journal (2008) by Hélène Berr, and La Douleur [The

War] (1985) by Marguerite Duras—exhibit translation movements to different subject- positions within the body in order to testify of trauma. In contrast, the two Francophone works studied—Djamila Boupacha (1962) by Simone de Beauvoir and Gisèle Halimi and Le passé devant soi (2008) by Gilbert Gatore—exhibit translation movements across different bodies (both human and animal).

Most translation theories share a conceptual framework that assumes an original presence and a re-presentation of this presence elsewhere (Gentzler 144-45). Even deconstructionist translation theories, which challenge this supposition by hypothesizing that without translation, the original text ceases to exist (i.e. the translation reconstructs the source text), still assume that the original text exists in some form if translation has

2 occurred. Likewise, although deconstructionist theories go so far as to say that it is not we who write the translated text, but the translated text which writes us (Gentzler 145), it is still assumed that a “we” or an “us” exists. This dissertation creates a model of translation that would account for the destruction of the original subject due to trauma. Instead of viewing translation as a reconstruction of the original self, I argue that these 20th century

French and Francophone authors use translation to testify of the utter destruction of their original selves. Through translation, there is a reconstruction of the relation to the original self, but not of the destroyed self. This dynamic corresponds to a relational definition of trauma, in which trauma is considered to be located in a person’s relationship to—and understanding of—an event, and not in the event itself.

Translation theories depend on some form of equivalence—whether it be analogous meanings, comparable aesthetic experiences, structural equivalences, or similar literary functions (Gentzler 144). In translation as testimony, the initial translation movement signals that the original self has been destroyed (there would be no need for movement if it remained). It appears that the re-created self most closely resemble the fantasy of the original subject before it was destroyed. From this new position, the re-created self is able to testify of some elements that were originally unspeakable. Subsequently, a more radical translation is necessary in order to mirror the loss of subjectivity and the destruction of the original self (in a way, this translation re-creates destruction). Importantly, it is possible for the third self to speak of the destruction of self, even though this experience remains unknowable for the original self. Thus, translation movements allow survivors to compensate for an inability to testify in the first person and to redefine their relationships with their original selves.

3 2nd subject-position (reconstructs an “equivalent” Testifies that original subject- subject, but capable of position has been destroyed speaking) Original Reconstructed Recreates destruction subject-position relation to destroyed Allows to testify (self is destroyed) site 3rd subject-position (reconstructs an “equivalent” Remembers destroyed self, but Mourns capable of Testifies of speaking)

Figure 1. Translation as Testimony

Translation

The way that translation is used in this dissertation goes beyond the most common usage of the word today, which is “to change into another language while retaining the sense.” It incorporates how the word “translate” has been used over time in French, English,

Arabic, and Kinyarwanda to better understand the various translation movements exhibited in the literary works studied. These connotations include: a movement in order to bear; the movement of a body from one location to another; a movement from one part of the body to another; the consequences of an event; a transformation; an understanding, explanation or interpretation; a retransmission; a biography; and, an expression of strong emotion.

The French “traduire” and the English “translate” are both derived from the Latin translatus, which is the past participle of transferre. Trans means “across”, while latus means “to carry, to bear, to suffer, to endure” (Oxford). This original definition is helpful in

4 elucidating the relationship between trauma and translation, since a major theme explored in this dissertation is the way that transferring the self across languages, genres, and bodies allows a survivor to carry, to bear witness to, and to endure trauma. In contrast, the Arabic word for translation, tarjama, was originally used to mean “biography” (Tymoczko 7, Naous in van Doorslaer 14). This conceptual overlap is also helpful in explaining the relationship between trauma and translation in the works studied. For example, translation movements in Djamila Boupacha allow Simone de Beauvoir and Gisèle Halimi to portray elements of

Boupacha’s biography, and they therefore retain the original connotation of tarjama.

Similarly, translation movements allow Berr and Duras to more fully understand and express their own lived experiences. In these French cases, translation is associated with autobiography. Furthermore, gusemura, the Kinyarwanda word for “translate,” originally comes from the Swahili word kusema which simply means “to speak.”1 This definition is relevant because in these works, translation is used as a narrative strategy for survivors to speak when they are unable to do so directly.

In English, translation also has the connotation “to carry or convey to heaven without death” (Oxford, definition I1b). This definition is relevant because I argue that the translation of a survivor’s subject-position occurs in order to escape psychological death. In particular, Hélène Berr code-switches from French into English so that she can express her emotions in an increasingly dehumanizing environment. Because English is described in utopic and magical terms, it is clear that this lexical field is a sanctuary for her when persecution intensifies. Thus, the protective quality of translation is highlighted. The most common definition of translation, “to change into another language while retaining the sense” (Oxford, definition II2a), is also relevant to Journal. However, I am not arguing that

1 Many thanks to Dr. Gilbert Hab, Dr. Salome Fouts, and Marion Busingye for answering my questions about Kinyarwanda and Swahili 5 these translations retain the exact same sense, as emotions are considered to be culturally and linguistically constructed, and thus do not have 100% overlap across languages. Rather,

I argue that Berr’s code-switching indicates a change in subject position from which she speaks.

In French and English, translation also has the connotation of physically moving a body from one place to another. Before 1300, “translate” was used to mean: “to bear, convey, or remove from one person, place or condition to another; to transfer, transport; specifically, to move a bishop from one see to another” (Oxford, definition I1a). This definition is relevant to Djamila Boupacha because she was transported from Algeria to

France in order to testify before a French judge. Due to socio-political factors, the change in geographic location significantly affected Boupacha’s capacity to bear witness of the torture she endured. During the same period, it was also used to mean “[moving a] dead body or remains of a saint, or, by extension, a hero or great man, from one place to another” (Oxford, definition I1a). While Boupacha was not dead, nor a saint, her body took on utmost importance because of the traces of torture inscribed upon it. As a militant Muslim woman,

Boupacha challenges the Christian paradigm. Nevertheless, these meanings of translation justify framing translation in both spatial and bodily terms. I also mean to evoke these early definitions of translation to illustrate the metaphorical moving of self from one topographical witnessing position to another. In English, “translate” was also used in 1855 to mean: “To re-transmit (a telegraphic message) by means of an automatic repeater”

(Oxford, definition III5). This adds to the current discussion because Djamila Boupacha’s testimony was re-transmitted to the French public by intermediaries such as Simone de

Beauvoir and Gisèle Halimi. However, I am not arguing that these two women are automatic

6 repeaters. On the contrary, each woman reshapes Boupacha’s testimony based on her particular social, political, cultural, and professional standing.

“Translate” was also used in English in 1386 to mean “to change in form, appearance, or substance; to transmute; to transform, alter,” particularly in relation to tailors and cobblers remaking garments or boots (Oxford, definition III4). This definition is relevant to the ways in which Duras and Gatore use translation, since both authors’ characters undergo transformations as they move cross successive layers of fiction. For example, the homo-diegetic narrator “Marguerite” (Duras 42) becomes the semi-fictional character, Thérèse, and links are made between these two characters and the young boy,

Marcel, as well as to the old woman and the girl in “Aurélia Paris.” On the other hand, Gatore transforms the character Isaro, a fictional survivor who mirrors himself in many ways, into

Niko, a mute and animalized perpetrator who is both Isaro’s opposite and her double. In turn, Niko projects his identity onto a monkey and a goat that are killed. For both authors, these translations allow them to process trauma and express emotions that remain inaccessible to them in the first person. Moreover, the physical transformations of their fictional characters are accompanied by a modification of their relationships to the original etiological events. As such, I argue that Duras and Gatore use translation as a narrative strategy to process and transform their relationships to overwhelming situations.

In English, in 1643, “translate” used to also have the connotation of: “to transport with the strength of some feeling; to enrapture, entrance” (Oxford, definition III6). Similarly, in French, “translate” can mean “to render sensitive.” These definitions add to the current project because Berr, Duras, and Gatore all use translation as a way to express more fully emotions related to death and the fear of dying. While certain emotions are masked in the

7 beginning of their narratives, each successive translation movement results in increased emotional awareness.

In French, “translate” can also refer to the revelation of the consequences of an event. This is relevant to the works studied because it suggests that translation is well- suited to explore the consequences of trauma on survivors. For example, the translation movements in Gatore’s novel explore the effects of the genocide in Rwanda on the author’s imagination; Berr’s translation movements document the effects of the Nazi occupation of

France on her sense of self; and, the translation of Boupacha’s testimony to the institutional and international levels is used to call into question the legitimacy of France’s legal system and status as a democracy. In all of these cases, translation is closely linked to revealing the consequences of an event.

In sum, this dissertation expands the definition of “translation” to include diverse meanings used over time in French, English, Arabic, and Kinyarwanda. These include: a movement in order to bear; the movement of a body from one location to another; a movement from one part of the body to another; the revelation of the consequences of an event; a transformation; an understanding, explanation or interpretation; a retransmission; a biography; and, the expression of strong emotion. The connotations evoked in these languages help to illuminate the complex links existing between trauma and translation that are demonstrated in the four literary works studied.

Translation has been briefly mentioned in scholarship on trauma. In Testimony:

Crisis of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis, and History (1992), Shoshana Felman argues that the Holocaust can only be named as that which is untranslatable, and that language cannot witness to it without splitting (303). In other words, no one language can contain the entirety of the Holocaust; it must be understood in its multilingual context.

8 In the same volume, Dori Laub evokes the idea of translation in his conception of witnessing, although he does not use this term. According to his model, a survivor transmits the story to the hearer—literally putting it outside of him or herself—in order to take it back inside little by little in a more integrated, less problematic way (69). Through testimony, a survivor reclaims his position as witness and reconstitutes an internal subject

(85). Thus, for Laub, I argue, successful witnessing involves two “translations” of trauma: from the witness to the hearer, and then back again. Laub’s consideration of witnessing in spatial terms is an important precedent to this project. However, this dissertation proposes to explore the translation dynamic from a different angle: instead of focusing on how a story is translated, I focus on how the self is translated to different subject-positions in order to change the relationship to—and understanding of—the etiological event. This dissertation will also consider in much more depth why two translations are necessary in the context of trauma.

Ann Kaplan addresses trauma and translation in Trauma Culture: The Politics of

Terror and Loss in Media and Literature (2005). In the chapter entitled “’Translating’

Trauma in Postcolonial Contexts: Indigeneity on Film,” she uses translation “in the literal sense of translating one language into another, and in the larger sense of explaining any particular culture to people from another culture” (104). She references Sherry Simon’s book Gender in Translation: Cultural Identity and the Politics of Transmission (1996) to argue that translation creates new subject positions and is a process for change. Instead of serving as a bridge between two already given entities, translation is conceptualized here as a creative space. Kaplan makes this argument does not elaborate much on the idea and the bulk of the chapter focuses on other issues and considerations. This dissertation proposes to explain this process and develop these ideas in much greater depth.

9 Other scholars who have addressed trauma and translation to at least some extent:

Nicola King in Memory, Narrative, Identity: Remembering the Self (2000); Daniel Balderston in Voice-overs: Translation and Latin American Literature (2002); Proma Tagore in The

Shapes of Silence: Writing by Women of Colour and the Politics of Testimony (2009); Charlotte

Ryland in Paul Celan's Encounters with Surrealism: Trauma, Translation and Shared Poetic

Space (2010); Jan Parker in Tradition, Translation, Trauma: The Classic and the Modern

(2011); Yasemin Yildiz in Beyond the Mother Tongue: The Postmonolingual Condition

(2012); and Laurie Sears in Situated Testimonies: Dread and Enchantment in an Indonesian

Literary Archive (2013). These publications demonstrate an increasing awareness and recognition of the link between trauma and translation. However, these critical works do not venture outside the bounds of the most common definition of translation—from one language to another—and do not consider translation in spatial terms. Moreover, they do not explore how translation fundamentally changes a subject’s traumatic relationship to the original, etiological event. Thus, this dissertation is positioned to make a unique contribution to current understandings of the relationship between trauma and translation.

Trauma

Dominick LaCapra and Eric Fassin argue that historical, social, and political contexts are important in understanding trauma (Fassin 19). For this reason, I will limit the current study to the 20th century, specifically 1939-2009. This period is punctuated by numerous large-scale traumatic events and unprecedented types of warfare, prompting new types of medical and psychological research on trauma, as well as unique responses from women writers. The seventy year period chosen encompasses literature written in the context of

World War II (1939-1945), the Algerian War (1952-1964), and the Rwandan genocide

(April-July 1994). I will give a brief overview of trauma studies in order to contextualize

10 understandings of psychological trauma during this period. Importantly, this overview will allow me to situate the way I am using the term “trauma” in relation to other definitions that currently exist in the field of trauma studies.

“Trauma” comes from the Greek τραῦμα, meaning “wound” (Oxford). Originally, the word “trauma” was only used in relation to physical wounds, but this definition was enlarged in 1866 to include mental injury (Young 13). From 1889 to 1922, pioneering

Austrian and French psychologists such as Jean-Martin Charcot, Pierre Janet, and Sigmund

Freud developed theories of psychological trauma. Charcot’s psycho-neurological model of trauma rejected purely physical explanations (21), incorporated the element of fear (21), and included a self-induced hypnotic state (19). Janet explored streams of consciousness and considered the division between conscious and unconscious awareness to be pathological (33). Unlike Janet, Freud thought that this split was normal. In Freud’s model, which remains influential today, painful, unmanageable memories are banished from consciousness; thereafter, they act like parasitic, foreign bodies that consume energy (37,

39). Freud considered the symptoms experienced after the etiological event(s) as defense mechanisms used to preserve the ego (91). According to this model, anxious dreams occur because of a compulsion to repeat and are viewed as attempts to anticipate

(retrospectively) the danger of the traumatic event (80-81).

World War I (1914-1918) increased awareness of psychological trauma among physicians. It caused unprecedented cases of trauma in part because, unlike in previous wars, soldiers were not part of a regular army; instead, they were conscripted or were volunteers. In consequence, soldiers did not have enough long-term training to handle the violence to which they were exposed (Rivers 215 in Young 65). During this period, Abram

Kardiner codified psychosomatic symptoms related to trauma, including irritability,

11 explosive and unpremeditated aggression, contraction in the general level of functioning, loss of interest in the world, and a characteristic dream life (Young 90). Unlike Freud,

Kardiner thought that these symptoms were an adaptive response used to manage the pain brought on by a sudden inability to control both one’s internal and external environments

(89). In addition, Kardiner identified the delayed nature of symptoms in relation to the etiological event (Young 90-93, Kienzler 219): his seminal book, The Traumatic Neuroses of

War (1941), is considered the source of the symptom list used to diagnose Post-Traumatic

Stress Disorder today (Young 89).

During World War II, traumatic neurosis was accepted in the medical community as an “authentic illness” (Fassin 64), although interest in this phenomenon rapidly declined once the war was over (92). However, an important addition to trauma studies was the notion of “survivor guilt.” This concept appeared for the first time in Bruno Bettelheim’s writing and is related to his will to survive in the concentration camps to the neglect of others’ well-being (Fassin 74).

Interest in trauma increased again after the Vietnam War (1954-1975). High rates of mental disorders, self-destructive or antisocial behaviors, suicide, and aggression were observed in the Vietnam War veteran population (Young 108). In response, a six-person committee defined Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in the third edition of the Diagnostic

Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, which was published in 1980 (110). The DSM-

III specifies that the etiological event prompting PTSD should be “outside the range of usual human experience” and should evoke “significant symptoms of distress in most people”

(DSM-III in Young 107). PTSD was defined in this way in order to eliminate suspicion of victims and to imply that any “normal” individual may suffer from trauma (Fassin 77, 115).

Because of this definition, symptoms became viewed as normal responses to abnormal

12 situations (87). It is important to consider the political and social climate in which PTSD was defined: diagnostic criteria were intentionally worded to ensure that Vietnam veterans would receive disability compensation according to the policies that existed at the time

(Young 108, Keinzier 218).

Trauma studies experienced rapid growth in the 1980’s due to an increased awareness of childhood sexual abuse, as well as because of the third-wave feminist movement, which called attention to issues such as rape, incest, prostitution, and genital mutilation (Kaplan 37). Feminist theory has influenced trauma studies because it elucidates how biases and hierarchies found in society can cause traumatic experiences for women

(Brown 464, 465). Feminism has expanded definitions of trauma to include Roots’ idea of insidious trauma (Brown 466),2 Freyd’s idea of betrayal trauma (Brown 466),3 and

Herman’s idea of complex trauma (Brown 467).4 Feminist practitioners have also challenged the definition of PTSD, arguing that many traumatic events are not outside the usual range of women’s experiences (464).

Currently in trauma studies, there are three main ways to define trauma. Some scholars take an “event-based” definition, locating trauma in an overwhelming etiological event (Caruth 11, 49, 91; Hoffman 37; Denham 399). Other scholars take a “relation-based” definition, locating trauma in the meaning assigned to the event after it has occurred

(Kienzier 218). Still others use a “biologically-based” definition, using new advances in technology to define trauma by the neurological and chemical changes that occur in the brain (Brewin 2007, 232; LeDoux in Kaplan 38; Yehuda, Kessler, Sonnega, Bromet, Huges,

2 Insidious trauma occurs when members of minority groups are continually exposed to stressors such as discrimination, violence, stigmatizing images, and exclusionary practices over a long period of time (Brown 466) 2 Instead of focusing on the role of fear or anxiety in trauma, Freyd examines how betrayal caused by childhood sexual abuse affects human connections afterwards (Brown 466). 4 Complex trauma involves multiple traumatic events over a long period of time 13 Nelson, Shalev in Kienzler 221). This dissertation will take a “relation-based” approach, locating trauma in a person’s relationship to an event, and not in the event itself. This perspective addresses the ways in which people understand and interpret experiences based on cultural, personal, and ideological frameworks. That is to say, the same event may be traumatizing in one context, but not another—and to some people, but not others— based on the way the event is understood and framed. This approach allows for a more nuanced understanding of trauma because it takes into account cultural differences and respects how people understand their own experiences. In addition, locating trauma in a person’s relation to an event gives the survivor more agency: a past event cannot be changed, but a person’s relationship to this event can be continually transformed.

Furthermore, a “relation-based” definition resonates with certain Francophone ways of understanding the world, such as Martinican author Edouard Glissant’s poetics of relation or the classical African concept of ubuntu, which is “I am what I am because of who we all are” (Murray 4, Neeves 123). Biological definitions of trauma are important and complimentary to a relation-based approach. Yet, they are limited because they do not take into account the social and cultural aspects of trauma that are central to the literary works being studied.

There is a current trend in trauma studies to focus on geographic locations other than Europe and America in order to understand better how trauma is experienced globally.

According to Visser, the most critical debate regarding trauma studies today is whether or not it can effectively be post-colonialized (Visser 270). Postcolonial scholars critique trauma studies because it predominantly focuses on Euro-American events, most notably on the

Holocaust (Rothberg 87, Murray 2, Neeves 109, Kienzier 218-220). Burrows argues that trauma studies passes over postcolonial subjects and demonstrates a fundamental

14 ethnocentric blindness (Burrow 162). Radstone contends that the suffering of those categorized as “Other” by the West tends not to be addressed by trauma theory or included in its empathetic reach (Radstone 25). Novak argues that discourses on trauma are founded on the erasure of the colonial Other’s voice (Novak 32). Postcolonial scholars call for a decentralization of trauma studies from its Western point of view in order to take other traumatic world events into consideration (Rothberg 2008, 227; Bracken and Polly in Visser

272; Boehmer in Visser 277; Whitehead in Visser 278). In light of these important critiques, this dissertation gives equal weight to French and Francophone literature. Specifically, works from France, Algeria, and Rwanda are analyzed from a postcolonial perspective. This choice of geographic location was made in relation to three major world events: World War

II (1939-1945), the Algerian War (1954-1962), and the Rwandan Genocide (1994). A large corpus of Francophone texts has been written in reaction to these events, providing ample evidence for the narrative strategy this dissertation seeks to examine, notably translation as a way of processing trauma.

In chapter 1, I examine translation across languages as a narrative strategy to testify of trauma. Hélène Berr was a Jewish university student who kept a diary of her experiences during the German occupation of Paris. Journal is exceptional for its emotional code- switching, meaning that Berr switches from French into English in order to express emotion. I argue that Berr’s code-switching is an attempt to translate her voice into a separate linguistic space, thereby preserving her capacity to feel emotion in a dehumanizing environment. As persecution intensified, however, there is an erasure of the French “I” from the text. Subsequently, it becomes impossible for Berr to retain a first-person subject- position, even in English. Consequently, she translates her voice to English literature,

15 allowing third-person narratives to testify of her experiences in ways she is no longer capable of doing.

In chapter 2, I analyze translation across literary genres as a narrative strategy to testify of trauma. La Douleur is a hybrid work composed of six short stories that address trauma in the context of World War II. The texts are arranged on a continuum from autobiography, to auto-fiction, to fiction. I argue that Duras translates her voice from first- person autobiography, to third-person auto-fiction, to third-person fiction in order to bear witness. While similar elements appear across all three genres, the author’s relationship to them changes due to the difference in her subject positioning within distinctly different literary spaces. I argue that each translation movement allows Duras to process certain elements of her experience and to express difficult emotions that she is unable to evoke in the first person.

In chapter 3, I examine translation across women’s bodies as a strategy to bear witness. Djamila Boupacha is a text written in the context of the Algerian War (1952-1964) in order to incite international public outrage at the torture of Boupacha, a militant member of the Front de Libération National. I examine how Boupacha’s sense of self was intentionally destroyed by the torture she endured, and how she resorts to the collective

“we” in extreme moments, where it appears that the boundaries of her self have been erased. I argue that Boupacha translates her voice to Gisèle Halimi, her Tunisian-French lawyer, and to Simone de Beauvoir, a French feminist author, in order to testify of the torture and rape that she endured at the hands of the French army. Each time that

Boupacha’s testimony is re-voiced, it is transferred to a different sphere due to the differences in the three women’s social positioning. Accordingly, the testimony is relocated from the individual level (Boupacha), to the institutional level (Halimi), and finally, to the

16 international level (de Beauvoir). At each stage, Boupacha’s testimony challenges colonial discourses of power, shame, and the female body.

In chapter 4, I analyze translation onto fictional human and animal bodies as a narrative strategy to testify of trauma. Le passé devant soi is written in the third person due to the alienation Gatore experiences towards his childhood self (the one who lived through the genocide in Rwanda) (Gatore “L’énigme” 202). I argue that Gatore translates his identity across a series of fictional selves—each of whom exists in the imagination of the previous self—in order to verbalize both the unsayable and the unknowable experiences of the genocide. For example, the character Isaro projects her identity onto a fictional character,

Niko, in order to describe the unsayable elements of her own experience; Niko, in turn, translates his identity onto two animal bodies—a monkey and a goat—in order to represent the unknowable elements of his experiences. I argue that these translation movements make visible the intimate, repetitive violence that continues to be perpetuated in the imaginations of survivors who have lived through the genocide in Rwanda.

Examining translation as a narrative strategy for processing trauma in 20th century

French and Francophone writing is relevant to numerous conversations in academia at the moment: it is relevant to trauma studies, since it adds to understandings of survivor testimony in a global setting; to postcolonial studies, as it is related to the “subaltern”; to translation studies, as it proposes a new theoretical framework of translation; to linguistics, as emotional code-switching in writing has yet to be studied; and to 20th century French and

Francophone studies, as Journal by Hélène Berr, Djamila Boupacha by Simone de Beauvoir and Gisèle Halimi, and Le passé devant soi by Gilbert Gatore have received relatively little scholarly attention thus far. In addition, this dissertation explores subject matters that correspond to current events throughout the world including the opening of French

17 archives concerning the Algerian War in 2012 and the 20-year anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda in April 2014. Presently, trauma studies is criticized for creating a “mythical norm” of human response to trauma (Brown in Van Styvendale, 206). This dissertation responds to postcolonial critiques by examining instances of trauma in France, Algeria, and

Rwanda. As such, this project adds to the growing body of research done on trauma in a global context.

This dissertation is relevant to postcolonial studies because it challenges dominant

Western discourses on translation. By considering alternate meanings of translation found in other languages and cultures, it decentralizes the concept and allows the true potential of this tool to become more apparent. As I will show, translation privileges the recreation of subjectivity and permits the expression of self even after it has been destroyed. For this reason, it can be considered as a response to Gayatri Spivak’s fundamental question: “Can the subaltern speak?” In her pivotal article, Spivak contends that the subaltern is a silent, silenced center which cannot speak or know its condition (78, 80). In many ways, however, the subaltern is similar to the silenced self who has been destroyed by trauma. Thus, translation as testimony can be considered as a viable way for the subaltern to achieve expression despite its inability to speak.

This dissertation will add to the current body of research done on emotional code- switching by focusing on its appearance in writing. Although work has been done in the field of emotional code-switching by scholars such as Jeanette Altarriba, K.W. Bamford,

Jean-Marc Dewaele, Rachel Morier, Isaura Olivares, Alexia Panayiotou, Aneta Pavlenko, and

Azara Santiago-Rivera, their work has focused on emotional codeswitching in speech.

Recent publications such as Froued Laroussi’s Code-switching, Languages in Contact and

Electronic Writings (2011) and Mark Sebba’s Language Mixing and Code-switching in

18 Writing: Approaches to Mixed-language Written Discourse (2012) show that codeswitching in writing is also valuable and relevant to current discussions in linguistics.

This dissertation will address three texts that have not received much attention yet in academia. According to the MLA international bibliography and library searches, only five articles have been published on Journal by Hélène Berr since it was published in 2008; four articles, one dissertation, and two book chapters have been written on Le passé devant soi by Gilbert Gatore since its publication in 2008; and, three book chapters and one article have been written on Djamila Boupacha since it came out in 1962. Therefore, this dissertation adds to small but growing body of research done on these three important works.

Addressing torture in the Algerian War is relevant because several French archives recently opened in 2012 when the fifty-year limitation period expired. Because of the newly available documents, scholarship on torture has greatly increased in recent years. As such, the chapter on Djamila Boupacha is particularly relevant to Francophone studies in North

Africa. Similarly, addressing the genocide in Rwanda is relevant because 2014 marks the

20-year anniversary of this catastrophic event. At present, numerous academic conferences and memorials are being held throughout the world to remember, reflect upon, and commemorate the genocide. In addition, a verdict was reached in the first genocide trial held in metropolitan France on March 14, 2014 when Pascal Simbikangwa, the director of

Rwanda’s intelligence service, received a 25-year prison sentence. Most recently, France has denied the extradition of Gilbert Gatore’s father, Pierre Tegera, to Rwanda on April 11,

2014. Therefore, analyses of Djamila Boupacha and Le Passé devant soi are particularly relevant to current events in the Francophone world.

19 Finally, to date no one has focused on the translation as a narrative strategy employed by survivors in order to testify of trauma when they are no longer able to do so in the first person. By exploring this topic, this dissertation combines several fields together in a new and interesting way, making it possible to gain a deeper understanding of the relationship between trauma and translation.

20

Chapter 2: Translating Across Languages in Journal by Hélène Berr

Journal is a diary written from 1942 to 1944 by Hélène Berr, a Jewish university student living with her family in Paris under the German occupation of France. First published in 2008, it is a particularly important work because it is rare to find diaries written by Jews living in France during World War II (Fredj). As opposed to testimonies given after the war, Berr’s detailed accounts and perspicacious comments give us a privileged vision of what she experienced on a day-to-day basis. In addition, Berr’s unusual self-awareness and rich descriptions of her inner states offer invaluable insights for scholars in the fields of psychology and trauma studies. Her journal is exceptional for its codeswitching, meaning that Berr sometimes switches from French into English to express her emotions. This element adds a fascinating psycholinguistic dimension to the text, as little work on codeswitching in writing has been done thus far (McClure 157, Montes-Alcalá

194-5).

Hélène Berr was a brilliant student and an expressive writer. She received a mention très bien for two baccalauréat (in Latin and philosophy), as well as for her licence and maîtrise in English at the Sorbonne. Berr wrote a thesis on Shakespeare, for which she received the exceptional grade of 18/20. At the time that the diary was written, Berr was beginning her doctoral work in English literature, and planned to write a dissertation on

Keats. However, she was forced to abandon her academic plans due to the anti-Jewish laws put in place (Job in Berr 300).

21 Berr began writing her diary on April 7, 1942 at twenty-one years old. The diary spans approximately two years, the last entry being dated February 15, 1944. The entries are more or less daily, except for a long break from December 1942 to September 1943.

Berr regularly gave sections of her diary to Andrée Bardiau, the family’s cook, so that they could be delivered to her fiancé, Jean Morawiecki, in case of her eventual deportation (Berr

213, Job in Berr 301).

Berr and her parents were deported to Auschwitz on March 27, 1944—the day of her twenty-third birthday. She was evacuated from Auschwitz on October 31, 1944 and arrived at Bergen-Belsen on November 3. According to witnesses, she was killed just five days before the camp was liberated by English troops. Weakened by typhus, she was unable to stand for roll call and was beaten to death by a female guard (Job in Berr 303).

In 1994, Jean Morawiecki gave Berr’s original notebooks to her niece, Mariette Job, who bestowed the diary to the Mémorial de la Shoah [Shoah Memorial] in 2002. The notebooks have been prominently displayed as a permanent exposition since January of

2005. Journal has enjoyed considerable success in France and is currently being translated in approximately twenty countries (Fredj).

Thus far, the diary has received scholarly attention in French, English, and Italian.

According to the MLA international bibliography and library searches, five articles have been written on Journal to date. Lise Jaillant argues that Journal was successful in France because it was marketed as a rediscovered manuscript (379). Nathan Bracher claims that

Berr juxtaposes the beauty of nature with discrimination to more fully highlight the injustice of events (Bracher “Considérations” 156). He also contends that Berr corresponds to Lévinas’s idea of the “ethically grounded subject” (Bracher “Éthique” 25). David Caron shows that politeness and tact contributed to Berr’s exclusion from society (159), and

22 Mariolina Bertini identifies major shifts in Berr’s narrative. While these articles make important contributions, they do not address the subjects of testimony, codeswitching, or a destruction of self. For this reason, I will rely on evidence from Berr’s diary to support the majority of my arguments.

In this chapter, I show that Journal fulfills all the criteria of testimony outlined by

Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub. However, the diary also challenges this conception of testimony because Berr undergoes a destruction of her self and is unable to maintain the first-person “I” throughout the narrative. Berr translates into English, a separate linguistic space, in order to maintain her capacity to feel emotions and to bond with others. In doing so, she creates a subject position that is most similar to herself before persecution began.

Towards the end of the diary, a second, more radical translation movement occurs in which

Berr translates her authorial voice onto English literature. Rather than simply citing literary passages, Berr makes them speak for her, testifying that she is already dead. This second translation movement allows Berr to create a subject position that most closely resembles her destroyed self. The important difference, however, is that it is possible for her to speak from this new position.

Testimony

Journal exhibits all the characteristics of testimony as defined by Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub. It is a mode that allows access to truth, Berr takes responsibility for telling the truth, she conceptualizes of testimony as a form of action, and she claims the role of witness. Furthermore, the intended reader is important to the existence of the narrative and allows Berr to become more aware of her writing. However, these models of testimony are not able to fully capture the complex dynamics of Berr’s testimony because they assume a stationary witness, ignoring the various internal positions from which a bilingual witness

23 may speak. In addition, they do not consider the possibility that the self can be destroyed by trauma and therefore be unable to maintain the first-person “I” in order to bear witness.

According to Felman, testimony is not the Truth, but a mode that allows the audience to gain access to truth about events (Testimony 18, Claims 296). Berr’s journal fulfills this function in the following citation: “Il faudrait donc que j’écrive pour pouvoir plus tard montrer aux hommes ce qu’a été cette époque” (187) [“I must write to show people later on what these times are like” (159)]. Her diary gives insight into the realities of the times by recording the laws and ordinances passed affecting Jews, the discrimination she personally experienced, the persecution her friends and family endured, and events she heard about through the grapevine. With some exceptions, Berr took care to indicate the sources of her information and privileges first-hand testimony, as relatively few stories involving hear-say are recorded. Accordingly, Journal can be said to be a mode allowing readers to access truth.

In order to bear witness, Felman argues that a person must take responsibility for telling the truth (Felman Claims, 295). Berr assumes responsibility for truth-telling when she writes: “Je note les faits hâtivement, pour ne pas les oublier parce qu’il ne faut pas oublier” (105) [“I’m noting the facts, in haste, so as not to forget them, because we must not forget” (98)]. Berr’s note-taking can be interpreted as a concern for accuracy so that she can tell the truth more precisely. The obligation to remember is expressed through the use of the verb falloir [“must”] and is emphasized by italics. Indeed, Berr felt the responsibility to bear witness so strongly that it prompted her to begin writing again after the hiatus in

1942-1943 (183-185). For these reasons, Berr can be considered to take responsibility for telling the truth.

24 Felman claims that testimony “is a form of action through which a survivor reclaims the position of witness” (Testimony 85). Berr fulfills this requirement in the following citation: “Que faire? Et qui sait toutes ces choses-là? Il faut que je le raconte” (282) [“What is to be done? And who knows about these things? I have to tell them” (248)]. Here, Berr equates doing with telling and takes on the role of truth-teller. She also writes:

Il y a des hommes qui savent et qui se ferment les yeux, ceux-là, je n’arriverai pas à les convaincre, parce qu’ils sont durs et égoïstes et je n’ai pas d’autorité. Mais les autres, ceux qui ne savent pas, et qui ont peut-être assez de cœur pour comprendre, ceux-là, je dois agir sur eux. (183-185)

There are men who know and who close their eyes, and I’ll never manage to convince people of that kind, because they are hard and selfish, and I have no authority. But people who do not know and who might have sufficient heart to understand—on those people I must have an effect. (155-157)

In this passage, “je dois agir sur eux” [“I must act on them” (my translation)] corresponds to the conception of testimony as action. Although Berr feels that she lacks authority, she still believes that her testimony is powerful enough to change certain people. Thus, Berr’s diary can be considered a form of action through which she reclaims the role of witness.

According to Laub, testimony would be annihilated without someone capable of hearing the story being told (71). The above block quote is also important because it indicates an intended audience for Berr’s testimony (either those who don’t know, or those who have enough empathy to understand). In addition, Berr wrote with a specific audience in mind—her fiancé, Jean Morawiecki.

Je sais pourquoi j’écris ce journal, je sais que je veux qu’on le donne à Jean si je ne suis pas là lorsqu’il reviendra. . . . Il y a deux parties dans ce journal, je m’en aperçois en relisant le début : il y a la partie que j’écris par devoir, pour conserver des souvenirs de ce qui devra être raconté, et il y a celle qui est écrite pour Jean, pour moi et pour lui. (206, 213)

I know why I am writing this diary, I know I want it to be given to Jean if I am not there when he comes back. . . . There are two parts to this diary, I 25 realize on rereading the beginning: the part I write out of duty, to preserve memories of what will have to be told, and the part written for Jean, for myself and for him. (176, 183)

Journal is situated on the frontier between public and private domains. It is both a private account for herself and Jean and an account meant to be told to the public. Furthermore, by including herself in the intended audience, Berr also becomes a receiver of her own testimony.

According to Laub, it is only when a survivor knows she is truly being heard that she will ever stop to listen to, and hear, herself (71). Consciousness-raising is demonstrated in the following passage, where Morawiecki is an idealized and intimate listener who allows

Berr to become aware of her narrative.

A la pensée que l’enveloppe où je mets ces pages ne sera ouverte que par Jean, si elle est ouverte, et aux moments si brefs où j’arrive à réaliser ce que j’écris là, une vague m’envahit . . . Mais je ne réalise presque pas, j’essaierai de saisir le moment précis où cela arrivera. (213)

At the thought that the envelope in which I am putting these sheets will only ever be opened by Jean, if it is opened at all, and when the realization of what I am writing flashes through my mind, something swells up inside me . . . But I have only just realized; I shall try to grasp the precise moment when it does occur. 1 (184)

Berr is not always aware of the full weight of what she has written. However, because

Morawiecki may one day read her diary, she is able to achieve fleeting moments of clarity.

Importantly, it is the way that Berr imagines Morawiecki reading her narrative that teaches her how to read it for herself. This dynamic is strengthened because Berr connects

“hearing” her emotions with learning to listen to music with Morawiecki (223). However, these moments of insight appear to overpower her, as they are not intentionally produced.

1 More literally, “But I almost don’t realize” 26 Although Berr does not demonstrate mastery over her narrative, the presence of an intimate listener allows her to become more aware of the full weight of her writing.

In sum, Berr’s diary can be considered testimony because it allows the reader to access truth, Berr assumes responsibility for truth-telling, she testifies as a form of action, claims the position of a witness, and has both a general audience and a specific reader in mind, which allows her to become more conscious of her narrative. In these ways, Berr’s diary fulfills the criteria of testimony as outlined by Felman and Laub.

However, Berr’s diary also extends beyond these models. Both Felman and Laub conceptualize of testimony in spatial terms. Felman understands survivor testimony as coming from an “utterly unique and irreplaceable topographical position with respect to an occurrence” (297). On his part, Laub considers trauma testimony to be a movement in which the survivor transmits a story to the hearer—literally putting it outside of oneself— in order to take it back in a more integrated, less problematic way (69). For Felman, the survivor’s position is rooted to a unique place, while for Laub, there is a movement of the story but not the survivor. Berr’s diary challenges these models because she does not remain a stationary figure. As a bilingual, she switches from French into English, thereby translating her authorial voice into a separate linguistic space. She also translates her voice onto English literature, allowing it to testify of her experiences in ways that she is no longer capable of doing directly. Felman and Laub’s models of testimony are unable to fully capture the dynamics of Berr’s testimony because they do not take into account those who are unable to testify in the first-person or who appropriate other’s words when they are unable to speak directly.

The destruction of self

27 The German invasion of Paris was not confined to the external environment, but also extended into Berr’s internal world. This incursion is evident through self-imposed restrictions and sudden, overwhelming realizations and emotions concerning persecution.

In consequence, Berr experiences estrangement to herself and is no longer able to fully occupy her internal space. Berr exhibits a loss of physical, emotional, intellectual, and behavioral control. She also expresses a fragmentation of self. Moreover, an erasure of self is demonstrated through the omission of first-person pronouns throughout the diary. While personal events lead to an omission of je [“I”], arrests and deportation prompt an erasure of the collective nous [“we”]. Berr demonstrates an inability to maintain a first-person subject position and explicitly states that she is leading a posthumous life.

The German’s invasion of Paris extended into Berr’s intimate, internal space. At first,

Berr simply documents discrimination experienced under the Nazi regime. For example, she records the law forbidding Jews to enter stores (109) or to take walks outside (118). These ordinances restrict movement into and out of spaces, confining Jews to ever-reduced geographic areas. The restrictions then extend into Berr’s internal world in the form of self- imposed constraints. For example, Berr states that she no longer has the right to be happy

(144) or to receive tenderness (237). These limits demonstrate the degree to which Berr has internalized the dehumanizing discourses of her time. It may be that Berr over-applies laws in an attempt to follow them completely, thereby decreasing her chances of arrest or deportation. This defense mechanism may have provided her with a semblance of increased security in an environment where danger was omnipresent.

Perhaps the best indication of how internally invasive the German occupation was for Berr is the frequent use of the word brusquement [“abruptly”]. Employed over fifty times, this word demonstrates the frequency of overwhelming realizations and emotions

28 that flooded her. To give just one example, Berr describes her sudden awareness of the law requiring Jews to sit in the last metro car like this:

Nouvelle ordonnance aujourd’hui, pour le métro. D’ailleurs, ce matin, à l’Ecole militaire, je me préparais à monter dans la première voiture lorsque j’ai brusquement réalisé que les paroles brutales du contrôleur s’adressaient à moi : ‘Vous là-bas, l’autre voiture.’ J’ai couru comme une folle pour ne pas le manquer, et lorsque je me suis retrouvée dans l’avant-dernière voiture, des larmes jaillissaient de mes yeux, des larmes de rage, et de réaction contre cette brutalité. (102)

A new order’s been issued today, about the métro. In fact, this morning, at Ecole Militaire, I was about to get into the carriage when I suddenly realized that the harsh words of the inspector were addressed to me: “You there, in the other carriage.” I ran like a hare not to miss the train, and when I got into the last-but-one carriage, tears were pouring from my eyes, tears of rage, and of protest against this brutality. (95-96)

Although Berr was previously aware of the law, processing its personal implications overwhelms her cognitive capacities. The idiomatic expression comme une folle [“like a crazy woman” (my translation)] suggests losing control of one’s self, while the phrase lorsque je me suis retrouvée literally means “when I found myself again.” It is as if Berr has been denied access to both the physical space of the metro and the internal space of her own body. It is only when she is in the train again—and in her self again—that Berr can react emotionally. The end result of these frequent, abrupt, and overwhelming realizations is that Berr from herself. She writes: “Je ne sais vraiment pas ce que je suis devenue, mais je suis changée de fond en comble” (121) [“I really don’t know what’s happened to me, but I have changed from top to toe” (113)]. The detrimental effects described by Berr (237) correspond to Laura Brown’s concept of insidious trauma, in which members of a minority group are continually exposed to stressors such as discrimination, violence, stigmatizing images, and exclusionary practices over a long period (Brown 466).

29 As this feeling of estrangement heightened, Berr’s writing provides evidence of a loss of physical, emotional, intellectual, and behavioral control. Berr loses control of her bodily reactions, displaying unexplained tears or uncontrollable trembling in response to kindness or positive attention (58, 123). For example: “[D]ans le métro, encore une femme du people m’a souri. Cela a fait jaillir les larmes à mes yeux, je ne sais pourquoi”(58)

[“Another working-class woman smiled at me on the metro. It brought tears to my eyes, I don’t know why” (54)]. It is as if Berr’s body reacts despite her, or perhaps without her, since she does not understand why this is happening. In an environment of prolonged discrimination, it may be that Berr’s brain has adapted by devoting all of its energy to survival at the expense of other areas. In consequence, Berr would have difficulty when presented with kindness or nurturing and experience them as bewildering. Berr demonstrates a loss of emotional control through outbursts of unintended hostility. For example, she writes: “J’ai dû répondre snappily sans faire exprès” (63) [“I must have responded rudely, without meaning to” (60)]. Aggression is expressed in English, causing the foreignness of the word to mirror Berr’s estrangement towards the hostile response exhibited. Berr also loses her capacity to process events. As an unusually intelligent person, her inability to understand everyday conversations, read a book, or comprehend reality was extremely disorienting (73, 83, 85, 100, 101, 269). For example, she writes: “[J]e n’arrivais pas à lire” (101) [“I wasn’t able to read” (my translation)], and “Je souffre tellement, parce que je ne comprends plus” (269) [“I suffer so much because I no longer understand” (my translation)]. Berr also loses control over her mental faculties, since she is unable to access her thoughts (43, 91). Furthermore, Berr exhibits a loss of behavioral control since she acts in uncharacteristic ways, followed by astonishment at her conduct (44, 45). For these reasons, Berr can be said to exhibit a loss of physical, emotional, intellectual, and behavioral

30 control. As Bessel van der Kolk contends, a survivor’s inability to self-regulate is one of the most far-reaching effects of psychological trauma (Van der Kolk 187).

One way in which Berr attempts to regulate her internal space is through splitting.

In trauma studies, splitting is considered to be a defense mechanism through which a person divides and compartmentalizes her identity in order to separate from a “bad self” and preserve enough of a “good self” so as to survive (Layton 107-109, St. Clair 121).2

Throughout her diary, Berr exhibits a fragmentation of self on at least eleven occasions. The divisions described by Berr include an opposition between old and new selves, logical and emotional selves, and academic and non-academic selves. Although Berr never loses the desire to maintain a unified self, towards the end of the dairy, she acknowledges that this is no longer possible due to the intense persecution endured.

Berr identifies with a new, “good” self while distancing herself from an old, “bad” self. Since Berr cannot do anything to lessen discrimination, she convinces herself that persecution is constructive instead of destructive. Accordingly, changes to her self that were once deplored (19) become celebrated as positive. Berr compensates for helplessness by reassuring herself that God is in control and that events are predestined. This serves as a defense mechanism because it keeps Berr from openly revolting, thereby provoking certain

2 Fragmentation of self has been discussed in literary criticism, psychoanalysis, and trauma research. For Judith Butler, fragmentation is seen as a resistance strategy and is celebrated as a way to subvert dominant discourses on gender (Layton 107). Others, such as James Glass and Laura Mulvey highlight the pain of the fragmented female subject. Glass critiques postmodernism’s idealization of a fragmented identity (Glass 19, Heckman 298), while Mulvey analyzes how female bodies are fragmented in cinema due to a male gaze (23). In psychoanalysis, Lacan argues that the self undergoes fragmentation as part of the normal developmental process (the mirror stage). In contrast, Heinz Kohut and Otto Kernberg treat fragmentation as an abnormal development. Kohut posits that horizontal splitting occurs due to repression, while vertical splitting occurs in conjunction with narcissism (Kohut 209-213). For Kernberg, splitting separates different affective experiences and contradictory ego states in order to reduce anxiety (Kernberg 26, 34, St. Claire 122). Judith Herman argues that survivors of chronic childhood abuse experience fragmentation as “the central principle of personality organization” (107). Consequently, knowledge, memory, emotional states, bodily experiences, and representations of self are not able to be integrated in a typical way (107). 31 death (201). Berr’s belief that each new trial is specifically tailored to purify her and make her a better person allows her to integrate persecution into a pre-existing belief system.

However, because she views herself as increasingly pure, thereby ascending in moral superiority, shame and confusion become associated with her past self. By idealizing her new self and denigrating her old self, Berr is able to avoid an unbearable sense of loss. When

Berr is not able to maintain her “good” self, she experiences confusion, disappointment, and distress. For example, she writes: “Ce soir, je ne me retrouve plus, ce matin j’étais encore quelque chose de nouveau, et j’espérais que je le resterais. Mais je suis redevenue l’ancienne

Hélène” (155) [“This evening, though, I’m not myself; this morning I was still newly born, and I hoped I would stay that way. But I’ve become the old Hélène once more” (144)]. Berr’s desire to make this new self’s existence last as long as possible is exhibited through the use of a run-on sentence, while the conjunction mais [“but”] transmits her disappointment at having become her “old self” again. Berr also writes: “Hier, je suis allée chez les Léauté, j’ai endossé mon vieux moi, et j’étais en désordre intérieur, quel malaise !” (206) [“Yesterday, I went to the Léautés. I put on my old me like an overcoat, but I was all messed up inside, how distressing that was!” (176)]. Although Berr appears to control the shift between her selves, it nevertheless produces detachment, distress, and confusion.

Berr also exhibits a fragmentation between logical and emotional selves. For example, on June 18, 1942, the two selves are pitted against each other in mutual devaluation. As such, Berr cannot experience all of herself at once: she can be one or the other, but not both at the same time. This mutual exclusivity is apparent in the following quotation concerning her relationship with Gérard: “Je ne peux pas nier que je suis engagée.

Mais je ne sais pas comment cela s’est fait. Tout vient de ce que j’aime trop écrire des lettres” (69) [“I cannot deny that I am committed. But I don’t know how it happened. It all

32 comes from liking to write letters too much” (65-66)]. In the first sentence, the logical self recognizes that it is engaged but does not know how this has happened. A subtle shift in positioning occurs, as the emotional self does know the answer. In other words, different selves do not have full access to information. It appears that each one can only access certain stores of thoughts or emotions.

Berr also expresses fragmentation between her academic self and the self who is excluded from academia. She writes: “Hier soir, dire que j’étais transportée d’enthousiasme en lisant Shelley, ce moi-là existe aussi, il est aussi vrai et profond que l’autre, mais a-t-il le droit à l’existence?” (276) [“To say that I was moved and excited by reading Shelley yesterday evening—that self also exists, it is as true and deep as the other self, but does it have a right to exist?” (242)]. The self with whom Berr identifies—the one who loves reading and academic work—is greatly valued, but Berr also questions its right to existence.

Her exclusion from the university challenges the right for her academic self to exist even in the privacy of her own being.

Although Berr was once able to maintain a stable sense of self with only intermittent episodes of fragmentation, towards the end of the diary, fragmentation becomes the norm

(274). Because Berr is forced to participate in two mutually exclusive worlds—one in which she is valued, the other in which she is dehumanized—fragmentations of self (past/present, logical/emotional, academic/non-academic) allow Berr to continue to function as best as possible.

On several occasions, however, Berr evokes the death of herself. For example, concerning Gérard, she writes : “Il y a quelque chose de mort en moi à ce sujet” (85) [“But something in me has gone dead as far as that topic is concerned.” (80)] and “je suis éteinte”

(85) [“I have lost my spark” (85)]. Although the first citation evokes part of the self dying,

33 the second phrase indicates the whole self dying out. Berr also alludes to a death of self regarding Morawiecki’s departure: “Car le retour de Jean, ce sera, en plus de ma résurrection à moi, le symbole de la renaissance du bonheur ” (205) [“Because Jean’s return will be not only my own resurrection but also the symbol of the rebirth of happiness”

(176)]. In order for the self to experience resurrection, it must first have undergone death.

Although these references could be interpreted as merely metaphoric, Berr also explicitly describes herself as living a posthumous life: “J’oublie que je mène une vie posthume, que j’aurais dû mourir avec eux. Si j’étais partie avec eux, la nouvelle vie m’aurait paru une continuation de l’autre, je n’aurais pas eu cette impression” (243) [“I am forgetting that I am leading a posthumous life, that I should have died with them. If I had gone away with them, then the new life would have felt like a continuation of what had gone before, and I would not have felt like this” (212)]. In this passage, Berr demonstrates that she does not realize that she has survived. While “j’aurais dû mourir” [I should have died”] is in the conditional past tense, and therefore hypothetical, “je mène une vie posthume” [“I am leading a posthumous life”] suggests that the death has actually occurred. It seems that Berr forgets that she has survived and exhibits confusion between life and death. This amnesia signals an unclaimed experience of missed death as conceptualized by Cathy Caruth (62).

Inability to maintain the first-person

Ultimately, Berr’s diary exhibits an erasure of self through the omission of first- person pronouns. These elisions occur throughout the diary, but four clusters can be discerned, each of which occurs in conjunction with a major negative event. The first deletions seem to be provoked by a discussion of deportation and the announcement of the

Vel d’Hiv roundup (91); they end when Berr realizes that she has survived (103). The second set of omissions is situated immediately after Berr’s definitive rupture with Gérard.

34 The third cluster is linked to Jean Morawiecki leaving Paris, while the fourth group appears to be prompted by the anniversary of his departure. In these passages, Berr’s present self is erased through the omission of the first-person pronoun and the auxiliary (conjugated in the present tense), while a trace of her past self remains in the form of the past participle. It appears that personal events provoke an erasure of the first-person singular je [“I”] and that collective roundups and deportations prompt the elision of both je [“I”] and nous [“we”].

The first instances of pronoun erasure are situated in a discourse of emptiness, elimination, and deportation. For example, Mme. Levy had warned the Berr family about the

Vel d’Hiv roundup that would take place, which represents an erasure of Jews from Parisian society. Berr also describes her morning being emptied of activities (93), her self being emptied of energy (94), and Gérard’s words being emptied of meaning (98). Importantly,

Berr indicates that she is willing to flee her body—emptying it of herself—in order to cope with intense emotional pain (97, 101). This practice undoubtedly facilitates an erasure of self from the narrative, and is exhibited when Berr finds a postcard dated June 22 (95)—the very day she was processing her father’s deportation (71-72).

The deportation of Jews from Paris leaves holes both in society and in Berr’s personal narrative. For example, a pronoun erasure occurs after the SS ordered the deportation of all the patients at the Rothschild hospital where Berr volunteered (95). The next entry, Berr writes: “Aubergenville avec toute la famille Bardiau. Avons cueilli des fruits toute la journée, chaleur effroyable. Il a fait de l’orage toute la nuit” (96) [“Aubergenville with all the Bardiaus. Picked fruit all day, dreadful head. There was a storm all night” (90)].

Berr’s choppy writing and the elision of nous suggests just how much she was affected by the deportation of her patients. Moreover, the repetition of the word toute (“toute la famille” [“all the Bariaus”], “toute la journée” [“all day”], and “toute la nuit” [“all night”])

35 suggests reaction-formation, meaning that void is transformed into entirety in order to cope with loss. Laws banning Jews from public places in Paris also results in an omission of the first-person singular pronoun je [“I”]. For example, after Berr describes an ordinance forbidding Jews to cross the Champs-Elysées or enter theaters, cinemas, museums, libraries, stadiums, pools, public gardens, restaurants, and tea houses (102), she writes: “Eté à la galerie Charpentier avec Bernard et Nicole” (102) [“Went to the Charpentier gallery with

Nicole and Bernard” (96)]. Similarly, after describing the ban of Jews from going on walks, she writes: “Reçu carte d’Odile, de Françoise Masse et de Gérard” (119) [“Got card from

Odile, one from Françoise Masse, and one from Gérard” (111)]. Just as Berr was unable to be seen in public, the first-person pronoun disappears from the private space of her diary.

The second cluster of subject pronoun erasures is prompted by Berr breaking up with Gérard. The difficulty of this personal event is expressed through modifiers such as

“horriblement dur” (122) [“horribly difficult” (114)] and “très, très grave” (122) [“very, very serious” (114)]. It appears that consciously recognizing her romantic relationship with

Morawiecki would cause Berr to see herself as a false, hypocritical person in relation to

Gérard because of the concurrent nature of her emotional attachments (122-123).

Accordingly, pronoun erasures may be related to the way in which Berr cannot bear to see herself.

The third cluster of pronoun deletions is situated shortly after Morawiecki announced that he would depart for the free zone. All six of the ensuing pronoun erasures are linked to place names and Jean Morawiecki. For example, Berr writes: “Couru rue de

Buzenval. Ensuite chez Galignani acheter un livre pour J. Eté rue de la Tour” (164) [“Dashed to rue de Buzenval, the to Galignani’s to buy a book for Jean. Was at rue de la Tour” (152)].

Similar to Jean Morawiecki’s name, which is reduced to the letter “J,” Berr’s self undergoes

36 erasure. A pronoun elision also occurs when Berr describes her solitary state: “Revenue ici seule, j’ai un peu travaillé” (166) [“Came back on my own, did a bit of work” (154)]. These omissions demonstrate the degree to which Berr’s sense of self depends on Morawiecki’s presence.

One year later, in November of 1943, Berr’s journal exhibits another cluster of pronoun elisions. Although Berr does not explicitly mention the anniversary of Jean

Morawiecki’s departure, the omission of first-person pronouns points to an unconscious remembering of both his absence and her own. The entire entry on November 16 reads:

“Eté à Neuilly pour rien. Eté à Saint-Denis à onze heures trente. Pleuré après le dîner ” (246)

[« Went to Neuilly, waste of time. To Saint-Denis at 11:30. Wept after dinner” (215)]. The first sentence bears a striking resemblance to the phrase written at the moment of Jean

Morawiecki’s departure one year earlier: “Eté à la Sorbonne pour rien” (164) [“Went to the

Sorbonne for nothing” (152)]. The parallel structures of these sentences cause the 1943 deletions to take on symbolic value in relation to the anniversary of Morawiecki’s departure.

Subject pronoun erasures do not occur consistently throughout the journal. Rather, omissions occur here and there, most often in clusters surrounding highly distressing events. These include the Vel d’Hiv roundup and deportation, breaking up with Gérard, Jean

Morawiecki’s departure, and the anniversary of this event. While personal events lead to the elision of the singular je [“I”], collective erasures are linked to the omission of the plural nous [“we”]. Because deletions are found in both short, staccato entries as well as longer, more developed passages, they cannot be written off as mere shorthand. Instead, clusters around major negative events suggest that the deletions are psychologically motivated and

37 express an erasure of self. For these reasons, I argue that Berr is unable to maintain a first- person subject position throughout her testimony.

Codeswitching in Journal

Berr’s fragmentation and erasure of self in French affects her ability to testify in the first-person. To compensate, she codeswitches, meaning that she occasionally translates from French into English in order to express her emotions. Berr’s codeswitching corresponds to Carol Myers-Scotton’s markedness model because she uses French when operating within the community norms established during the Occupation, but switches into English when she attempts to establish a new set of rights—including the right to positive and negative emotions and the right to strong interpersonal bonds. Because English operates as a separate linguistic field, it allows Berr to recreate a subject position that most clearly resembles herself before persecution began.

Codeswitching is the practice of alternating between two or more languages (or varieties of language) in conversation. Recent research has begun to focus on codeswitching as a phenomenon in writing as well.3 According to Myers-Scotton, an alternation can only be classified as a codeswitch if the interlocutor is proficient enough in each language to be able to produce well-formed, monolingual utterances (“Comparing” 23). All available evidence indicates that Berr had a high level of proficiency in English. For example, the Berr family was Anglophile and Hélène Berr had an English nanny growing up (Bellos 2). In addition,

Berr was beginning her doctoral work in English literature at the Sorbonne, and had previously written a thesis on Shakespeare. Berr’s linguistic practice can be considered codeswitching and not borrowing—as defined by Erica McClure (162)—because the English words she uses are not phonologically or morphologically integrated into French, they are

3 See, for example, François Grosjean, Foued Laroussi, Mark Sebba, Erica McClure, and Cecilia Montes-Alcalá. 38 not accepted as part of the French language, and they do not refer to objects or concepts that are new to French culture. Since Berr’s diary is in written form, typological considerations must be taken into consideration (Callahan 103). The italicized English words and glossed French translations in the published French version make Berr’s codeswitches much more apparent than they are in the original diary. Scans of the notebooks show that no such distinctions are made in the handwritten version (Berr 171-

173). Because Berr does not draw attention to the codeswitches made in her private diary, they can be analyzed as part of her natural language use, and not as a literary device employed for artistic or stylistic effect.

As my analysis will show, Berr’s codeswitching appears to be strongly motivated by emotional factors. Relevant findings of studies on codeswitching and emotion are that emotions are considered to be culturally and linguistically constructed, and thus do not have 100% conceptual overlap across languages (Pavlenko 151-53). Speakers may codeswitch in order to access different emotions (Pavlenko 150-53), or they may express similar emotions differently across languages due to linguistic and cultural differences

(Santiago-Riviera and Altarriba 32-33, Altarriba and Morier 251, Panayiotou 125-26, 130-

32). Codeswitching is often used to distance oneself from difficult emotions (Santiago-

Riviera and Altarriba 33-34, Dewaele 103) or to experience an emotion more fully or more authentically (Santiago-Riviera and Altarriba 32-33, Javier in Altarriba and Morier 253,

Santiago-Riviera et al. 440, Dewaele 212). Codeswitching and emotion have been studied in both the therapeutic context (Santiago-Riviera et al., Altarriba and Morier, Santiago-Riviera and Altarriba) and in everyday settings (Panayiotou, Pavlenko, Dewaele). However, it is unclear to what extent these findings are applicable to written codeswitches. For this reason, Journal is an important case study.

39 When analyzing Berr’s codeswitches, I rely on Carol Myers-Scotton’s Markedness

Model because it is considered one of the most influential and most fully-developed models to explain the motivations of codeswitching (Nilep 15). The Markedness Model proposes that codeswitching is a dynamic process driven by intentional, if often unconscious, individual motivations (Myers-Scotton “Explaining” 1259). Speakers signal an understanding of their sociolinguistic situation and their role within this context, exhibiting intuitive knowledge of which language choices are unmarked or marked. Unmarked code choices are most common, and are used when operating within community norms (“the unmarked choice maxim”). This is not to say that the speaker agrees with the norms, or that he or she somehow benefits from them. Rather, unmarked codes are the most compelling and feasible linguistic choice due to the potential cost of not acknowledging the power or prestige associated with established norms (“Calculating” 10, “Codeswitching” 335,

“Explaining” 1263). In contrast, marked choices are infrequent and are intentionally used to establish a new set of rights and obligations (“the marked choice maxim”) (“Codeswitching”

334). Although marked choices involve potential costs, their benefit is that they allow a speaker to step outside a set of norms and identify with another set of rights and obligations

(“Frequency” 205, “Codeswitching” 335). According to Myers-Scotton, codeswitches are rationally chosen to produce predictable and desired social consequences (“Codeswitching”

335, “Calculating” 5, 11). By using more than one language, bilingual speakers are able to negotiate relationships, social roles, multiple identities, and the rights and obligations associated within the different sociolinguistic contexts that they inhabit (“the negotiation principle”) (“Codeswitching” 334).

Although the Markedness Model was originally created to explain oral codeswitching in bilingual interactions, it can also be applied to the written codeswitching

40 found in Berr’s diary because this model focuses on how codeswitches convey messages about the negotiation and projection of a speaker’s identity (“Calculating” 2, 9). Even though

Berr is not directly interacting with others, she is nevertheless constantly re-negotiating her identity in response to discrimination, persecution, and changing societal norms. The enormous power of the Germans occupying Paris causes them to affect Berr’s writing in the private sphere in much the same way as if they were interacting face-to-face. As previously shown, Berr enforces numerous self-imposed restrictions in response to the restrictive ordinances passed; it goes to follow that her linguistic practices would follow a similar pattern.

Throughout her journal, Berr records numerous examples of the discrimination and persecution that she and other Jews experienced during the Occupation. For example, Jews had to wear the Star of David (56) and take the last car in the metro (59). They no longer had the right to cross the Champs Elysées (102), enter stores (109), go outside at certain times (118), be treated in public or private hospitals (267, 281), or even sit in a German office (281). Thus, discrimination and persecution of Jews became the established norm in

French society during the Occupation. This status quo corresponds to Myers-Scotton’s conception of an unmarked set of rights and obligations in a sociolinguistic context: the occupiers assume the “right” to establish a new set of laws, while the occupied are obliged to follow them or else risk being arrested and deported.

As persecution intensified, Berr exhibits an inability to feel emotions in French (90).

For example, she writes, “Je n’avais plus de sentiments, mais simplement le souvenir sans contours de ces deux journées sombres” (145) [“I had no more feelings, only a featureless memory of these two dark days” (135)]. Positive emotions such as dignity, heroism, equality, and happiness are all excluded from the realm of possible emotions (90). For

41 example, Berr writes: “[J]e n’ai pas le droit d’être contente” (144) [“I have no right to be happy” (134)]. French is used as the unmarked code choice to show that Berr does not have the right to experience positive emotions.

Berr codeswitches in a rational manner: she exhibits an understanding of her rights—and lack of rights—in each linguistic context and uses codeswitching to establish a new set of norms in English. It is worth quoting the following passage at length to show how these elements function together:

Je suis ouverte à tous les récits d’horreurs, je recueille toutes les tristesses, mais je ne vois plus de solution, c’est trop. Maintenant, je ne retrouve plus cette impression, parce que je l’ai refoulée, comme n’ayant pas droit à l’existence. Mais avant le dîner je me suis dit, est- ce que c’est mal de souhaiter enfin être dans un havre de tendresse et d’amour? Etre dorlotée, être choyée, faire fondre toute cette armature que la solitude face à la tempête a créée. Non, il n’y a rien à faire fondre, mais il y aura des profondeurs immenses à réveiller. Pourrais-je un jour ne pas être seule, captain of my soul, et avoir droit à cette tendresse maternelle que je demanderais à Jean, si paradoxal que cela puisse paraître ? Je voudrais être bercée comme un enfant. Moi qui m’occupe des autres petits enfants. Je voudrais tant et tant de tendresse, après. Car maintenant, je n’ai pas le droit sans doute. (237)

I am alert to all the horror stories, I gather up all the miseries, but I can no longer see any solution, it is all too much. I’ve lost the feeling I had because I repressed it as unworthy of existence. But before dinner I thought: is it bad to wish for a haven of affection and love at long last? To be caressed and cherished, to melt the hard shell that has grown out of facing the tempest alone. No, nothing needs melting, but vast depths need to be awakened. Will I ever have the chance not to be alone and captain of my soul; will I be granted the maternal affection I would like to have from Jean, paradoxical though that may seem? I want to be cradled like a baby. Me, who looks after other babies. When it’s over, I want lots and lots of love. Because for the minute I am sure I do not have any right to it. (207)

Berr expresses an understanding of her role in French, since she becomes a receptacle whose obligation is to remember. She is also aware of her lack of rights in this 42 sociolinguistic context, as she does not have the right to experience tenderness or other feelings. In contrast, the marked codeswitch “captain of my soul” points to a different set of rights in English. In this markedly different sociolinguistic context, Berr can be pampered and indulged. Her job is to awaken an immense depth of emotion so that she can love fully.

This passage demonstrates that Berr’s codeswitching is a rational process in which she negotiates her rights and obligations based on marked and unmarked code choices.

Berr’s repositioning in English allows her to express what she is no longer capable of experiencing in French due to the dehumanizing environment with which it is associated.

For example, Berr writes: “Mais après ce bain de souffrance, je ne serai plus à l’aise je ne me sentirai plus mon better self dans une joie égoïste” (220) [“But after this ocean of suffering I shall never be at ease again, I shall never resume my better self in selfish joy” (190)]. Here,

English is used to signal a departure from established norms of suffering in French. This codeswitch is also important because it suggests that Berr experiences a fragmentation of self along linguistic lines.

In Journal, codeswitching is used to distinguish caring people and positive experiences from the rest of negative interactions in society. For example, the first day that

Berr wears the Star of David, she receives numerous hostile reactions; however, one woman smiles at her several times. Afterwards, Berr uses the English word “maid” to describe her:

“Dans l’autobus, il y avait une femme, une maid probablement, qui m’avait déjà souri avant de monter et qui s’est retournée plusieurs fois pour sourire”(57) [“There was a woman on the bus, probably a maid, who had smiled at me in the queue, and she turned around several times to smile at me again” (54)]. English is juxtaposed with French, just as the woman’s kind reaction is contrasted with negative reactions Berr received due to the Star of David she wore. Elsewhere, a man shows Berr unexpected kindness when she visits her father in

43 prison: “Nous bavardions avec les employés, avec l’agent. Il y avait un petit monsieur très soigné, avec une moustache, et un air concerned. . . . Il nous recommandait, à Denise et à moi, la prudence. Il était sincèrement désolé de ce qui arrivait et très respectueux” (80) [There was a short, very dapper gentleman with a mustache who looked concerned. . .He advised

Denise and me to be very cautious. He was genuinely upset at what was happening and very respectful” (75)]. Although descriptions of this man are in French, his concern triggers a codeswitch into English, signaling that it is out of the ordinary. These examples show that

English is used as a marked code choice to establish a new set of rights. Although Berr does not have the right to positive interactions in French, she is able to experience them in

English.

The use of English allows Berr to maintain her capacity to feel positive emotions.

For example, she makes a codeswitch about potatoes in order to express an emotional bond with her father after his deportation: “Plus loin [dans sa carte postale], il parle des potatoes.

Je l’entends encore prononcer le mot, à Aubergenville. C’est à la fois consolant, parce que cela nous fait sentir tout proches, et poignant” (96) [Further down [in his postcard], he mentions potatoes. I can still hear him saying the word in English, at Aubergenville. It’s both consoling, because it makes us feel really close, and poignant” (90)]. It is not the physical potatoes that are comforting to Berr, but her father’s pronunciation of the word in English.

According to the markedness model, this is because English is associated with a separate set of norms—in this case, a space in which strong emotional bonds are possible. Berr also uses codeswitching to express positive emotions towards her fiancé, Jean Morawiecki. Examples include: “J.M. est venu vers trois heures. . .j’étais dans un glorious muddle” (52) [“Jean

Morawiecki came around 3:00. . . I was in a glorious muddle” (48)], “Cela a été la plus belle journée de ma vie. Elle a passé comme un rêve. Mais un rêve si heureux, si transparent, si

44 pur et si unmixed que je n’ai pas connu le regret, ni même la crainte de le voir s’évanouir”

(122) [“Yesterday at Aubergenville was the happiest day of my life. It passed like a dream. It was such a happy, transparent, pure and unmixed dream that I knew no regret, nor even the fear of seeing it come to an end” (114)], “Mais le soir. . . tout a fini par des giggles, j’ai montré [à maman] sa lettre et ma réponse” (123) [“But tonight. . . it all ended in giggles, I showed [mother] his letter and my reply” (115)], “Je n’attendais pas de courrier, la raison me disait que c’était impossible. Et pourtant, lorsque la sonnette a retenti, a wild flame of joy s’est levée en moi” (137) [“I wasn’t expecting any post, reason told me that it was not possible. And yet when the bell rang a wild flame of joy surged up inside me” (128)], and

“Mais mon cœur sang within. Jamais je n’ai été aussi joyeuse à la pensée de le revoir si vite”

(152) [“My heart was singing within me. Never had I been so happy at the thought of seeing him again” (142)]. These examples show that Berr routinely made marked codeswitches into English to express the strong emotional bonds with both her father and Jean

Morawiecki. Because these emotions are so foreign to the dehumanizing environment in which she lives, Berr expresses them in English.

The use of English also allows Berr to maintain her ability to feel negative emotions.

Berr’s codeswitching suggest that English is a privileged domain in which difficult emotions can be verbalized and processed. For example, she writes:

Ce soir, si je voulais, je pourrais me jeter sur mon lit, et pleurer, et dire à Maman que je veux me raccrocher de toutes mes forces à ce que j’étais avant. Et Maman sûrement me consolerait, et je m’endormirais avec le goût des larmes, et aussi le calme de la paix. Mais Maman alors se ferait encore un peu plus de bile dans la chambre à côté. Et je ne sais même pas si je pourrais faire cela. Ce serait du self-pity, et je suis devenue dure pour moi-même, parce que je crois que rien n’est plus nécessaire en ce moment. (24)

This evening, if I wanted to, I could throw myself onto my bed, burst into tears, and tell Maman that I want to hang on as hard as I can to what I was before. And Maman would surely console me, and I would fall asleep with 45 the taste of tears on my lips and a feeling of peace. But next door Maman would be making herself a little more ill with worry. And I don’t even know if I could do that. It would be self-pity, and I have become hard on myself because nothing seems more essential at the moment. (21)

In this passage, there is an imagined set of actions that Berr would like to do: throw herself on the bed, cry, talk to her mother, hold onto who she was before, be consoled, fall asleep with the taste of tears, and achieve a sense of calm and peace. These actions are then consolidated into the pronoun cela, allowing Berr to distance herself from them as they are glossed through the use of an impersonal pronoun. The word cela is then transformed into the English word self-pity: “Et je ne sais même pas si je pourrais faire cela. Ce serait du self- pity.” Thus, emotions that cannot exist in the sociolinguistic context of French are able to occur—and be named—in English. While self-pity may at first glance seem self-deprecating, it suggests that there is still a self in English who is capable of being pitied. In French, this is not the case, since Berr hardens herself. This dynamic shows that English operates as a privileged domain in which both positive and negative emotion can be expressed.

Berr’s codeswitching corresponds to Myers-Scotton’s markedness model because she demonstrates an understanding of her sociolinguistic context, including her rights, and lack of rights, under the German occupation of Paris. Berr uses French, the unmarked code, when she functions within community norms of discrimination, but codeswitches into

English, the marked code, when she tries to establish a new set of rights—including the right to feel positive and negative emotions, and the right to close interpersonal connections. Thus, translating into English allows Berr to create an identity that most closely resembles herself before persecution began.

Citations of English literature

Towards the end of Journal, a second translation movement occurs in which Berr transitions from using her own words in English to citing long passages of English 46 literature. This change can be considered a form of translation because Berr appropriates the “I” in the passages, making them speak for herself. In doing so, Berr reconstructs a self that most closely approximates her destroyed being. However, from this position, she combats extreme isolation by creating emotional connections to literary characters and is able to express her own death through the medium of literature. Thus, Berr uses quotations of English literature to testify of trauma, thereby compensating for her inability to speak directly in the first-person.

Berr’s citation of English literature can be explained by “tying,” a concept first developed by Lawrence Lessig and later incorporated into Myer-Scotton’s extended

Markedness Model (Lessig 1010, Myers-Scotton “Explaining” 1270). Tying is a strategy used to link one thing to another in hopes that the social meaning of the second entity will become associated with the first, thereby modifying its original significance (Lessig 1010,

Myers-Scotton “Explaining” 1266). Berr ties her own words in marked English codeswitches to those of prestigious authors by citing long passages of English literature. In so doing, she emphasizes her education and aligns herself with literary giants, causing some of their power and prestige to rub off on her. This increase in status helps Berr to compensate for her exclusion from the academic world and for the utter dehumanization she experienced.

In addition, Berr is able to combat intense isolation through her identification with literary characters. The cost of citing literature is that Berr no longer expresses herself directly; however, this loss is mitigated because Berr uses literature to express experiences that she is otherwise unable to narrate.

Following Morawiecki’s departure, Berr identifies with literary characters such as

Othello (226), Hamlet (255), and Ishmael in Moby Dick in order to grapple with isolation and death. For example, she writes:

47 Pendant un long temps après la rafle du 30 juillet, j’ai eu la sensation angoissante d’être restée la seule après un naufrage, une phrase dansait, frappait dans ma tête. Elle était venue s’imposer à moi sans que je la cherche, elle me hantait, c’est la phrase de Job sur laquelle se termine Moby-Dick : And I alone am escaped to tell thee. Personne ne saura jamais l’expérience dévastatrice par laquelle je suis passée cet été. (224)

For some time after the arrests of July 30, I had the stressful sensation of being the only survivor of a shipwreck, and a phrase kept jogging and banging around inside my head. It took hold of me without my looking for it; it haunted me, it’s the line from the Book of Job at the end of Moby-Dick: “And I alone am escaped to tell thee.” Nobody will ever know the devastation I experienced this summer. (194)

In this passage, tying occurs through Berr’s comparison of surviving the arrests to surviving a shipwreck. The sentence imposes itself on Berr, making it appear that has the agency necessary to make the tie in the opposite direction as well. By citing the well-known line,

Berr benefits from the prestige of both the Old Testament and Moby-Dick, compensating for her nevertheless striking lack of agency (Berr does not look for the phrase—rather, it haunts her). Despite the claim made by Ishmael “to tell,” Berr alludes to a failed telling since she claims that no one will ever know the devastation experienced that summer. Elsewhere,

Berr explicitly states that her experiences are incommunicable (293). It appears that literary passages remain capable of telling even when Berr herself is no longer able to do so.

For this reason, citing English literature can be considered a narrative strategy used to give voice to what Berr is unable to say directly. Through tying, Berr appropriates another’s “I” in order to speak.

A second example of tying used to express an unspeakable experience is when Berr aligns herself with Montaigne and Keats. She writes:

[S]i ces lignes sont lues, on verra bien que je m’attendais à mon sort, pas que je l’aurais accepté d’avance, car je ne sais pas à quel point peut aller ma résistance physique et morale sous le poids de la réalité, mais je m’y 48 attendais. Et peut-être celui qui lira ces lignes aura-t-il un choc à ce moment précis, comme je l’ai toujours eu en lisant chez un auteur mort depuis longtemps une allusion à sa mort. Je me souviens toujours, après avoir lu les pages que Montaigne écrivait sur la mort, d’avoir pensé avec une étrange “actualité”: “Et il est mort aussi, cela est arrivé, il a pensé à l’avance à ce que ce serait après,” et j’ai eu comme l’impression qu’il y avait joué un tour au Temps. Comme dans ces vers saisissants de Keats:

This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold, And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill they dreaming nights That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again And thou be conscious –calm’d—see here it is— I hold it towards you. (206-207)

[I]f these lines are read, it will be clear that I expected my fate, not that I had accepted it but, because I do not know how my physical and moral resistance will hold up under the weight of reality, that I was expecting it. The reader of these lines may be shocked at this moment, just as I have been when reading an allusion to the author’s death in the work of someone long dead. I remember reading the passage in which Montaigne speaks about his own death and thinking: “And he did die, and it did happen; he forethought what it would be like afterward,” and it seemed to me as if he had outwitted Time itself. As in these gripping lines of Keats: [see above]. (177)

Berr’s allusion to her own death is tied to Montaigne’s reference to his fate. She compensates for extreme vulnerability by linking herself with the renowned French author, thereby benefiting from his well-established prestige and the illusion of immortality due to his longstanding fame. The tie is achieved through the word comme [“like”]: “comme je l’ai toujours eu” [“just as I have been”]. A second tie is then made to Keats using the same method: “comme dans ces vers saissisants de Keats” [“As in these gripping lines of Keats”].

Like with the other marked codeswitches, this poem allows Berr to re-negotiate her identity outside the bounds of established sociolinguistic norms. Indeed, a posthumous presence is evoked through the trope of haunting. When Berr appropriates the hand (metonymic for the 49 writer), as well as the pronouns “I” and “my,” the poem is made to speak in her stead and give voice to a dead self. By citing the past words of an author to speak—in the present—for a future dead self, Berr mimics the temporal collapse inherent to traumatic memory.

Although Berr states that she will have foreseen her death coming (206), what she does not realize is that her repeated attempts to grapple with death are not too early, but too late.

What Berr believes to be preparatory is in fact reactionary. This dynamic corresponds to

Cathy Caruth’s conception of an unclaimed experience, in which the brain misses the original threat of death and must continuously return to the memory in order to master it

(62).

Another example of how Berr uses English literature to express what she cannot say is when she cites Prométhée délivré:

Si la mort pouvait être comme dans Prométhée délivré et c’est ce qu’elle devrait être si les hommes n’étaient pas mauvais : And death shall be the last embrace of her Who takes the life she gave, even as a mother, Folding her child, says, “Leave me not again.” Saisissant, c’est ce que je cherchais à exprimer tout à l’heure. (256)

If only death could be as it is in Prometheus Unbound; that is what it would be if men were not evil: And death shall be the last embrace of her Who takes the life she gave, even as a mother, Folding her child, says, “Leave me not again.” Astonishingly, that’s what I was trying to express just now. (224)

As in other instances, Berr appropriates the passage, making it speak for her when she is unable to express herself directly. The personification of death as a mother mediates the extreme difficulty of death. Rather than severing relational ties, death is framed as strengthening the close bond between a parent and child. This passage allows Berr to

50 express her wishes concerning death and to mitigate the intense social isolation that she experienced.

Other instances of tying are more subtle and involve a significant degree of ambiguity. This does not challenge the claim that Berr is tying, however, since successful tying necessarily involves ambiguity (Myers-Scotton “Explaining” 1267). Without the blurring of ownership, Berr would not be able to benefit from the prestige and status that these authors embody. For example, she writes: “[J]e comprends pourquoi j’étais désorientée, out of joint, en y pensant, pourquoi tout cela me paraissait mort. J’oublie que je mène une vie posthume, que j’aurais dû mourir avec eux” (243) [“I see why I was all at sea and out of sorts when thinking about it, why it all seemed dead to me. I am forgetting that I am leading a posthumous life, that I should have died with them” (212)]. Here, the repetition of the emotion in English is not redundant, but rather a negotiation of identity across languages. “Out of joint” can be interpreted as a tie to Shakespeare, since the line

“The time is out of joint” is found in Hamlet (28; Act I, Scene 5). Although this is only a snippet of a line, it can be considered a tie because Berr wrote her master’s thesis on

Shakespeare and had an intimate knowledge of his works. Psychologically, Berr benefits from the prestige, fame, and power of Shakespeare in a highly vulnerable moment—one in which she experiences herself as leading a posthumous life.

Berr’s diary ends on February 15, 1944, approximately one month before she was deported to Auschwitz on March 27. Her last recorded words are: “Horror! Horror! Horror!”

(296). This marked codeswitch can also be interpreted as a tie to Shakespeare, since the line

“O horror, horror, horror!” appears in Macbeth (47; Act 2, Scene 3). The presence of codeswitching and tying in Berr’s final words attests to the importance of these

51 sociolinguistic strategies in her attempts to negotiate her identity and cope with persecution during the Occupation of France.

In the second half of Journal, Berr translates her voice onto English literature in order to mirror the destruction and death of herself due to trauma. This strategy allows her to indirectly express unsayable experiences through the medium of literature. By appropriating the “I” of other characters, Berr is able to testify of her psychological death long before she was physically killed in the concentration camps. Her diary is exceptional because it bears witness to both her life and death experiences due to persecution.

Conclusion

Berr’s diary fulfills the criteria of testimony as set forth by Shoshana Felman and

Dori Laub because her diary is a mode that allows access to the truth. Berr assumes responsibility for truth-telling, testifies as a form of action, and claims the position of witness. In addition, the intended reader is an important element that allows Berr to become aware of her own narrative. However, Berr’s diary also extends beyond the scope of these models because she does not remain a stationary figure, but rather codeswitches throughout her diary in order to renegotiate her identity. In this manner, Berr speaks from different sociolinguistic positions.

In her diary, Berr exhibits a destruction of self and an inability to testify in the first- person. The German occupation of Paris extends into Berr’s internal world in the form of self-imposed restrictions. The result of repeated internal invasions is that Berr loses physical, emotional, intellectual, and behavioral control of herself. Moreover, Berr exhibits a fragmentation of identity, splitting between past and present selves, logical and emotional selves, and academic and non-academic selves. Ultimately, Berr experiences the death of her self and claims to be living a posthumous life. Her inability to maintain a first-person subject

52 position is demonstrated by omissions of first-person pronouns throughout the narrative.

Clustered around highly distressing events such as the Vel d’Hiv roundup, deportation, breaking up with Gérard, and Jean Morawiecki’s departure, personal events lead to the omission of je [“I”], while collective events prompt the elision of nous [“we”] and je [“I”].

In order to compensate, Berr translates into English, which represents a distinctly separate linguistic space for her. Berr signals an understanding of her sociolinguistic contexts and uses French when operating within community norms. However, she switches into English in order to establish a new set of rights, including the right to positive and negative emotions, as well as the right to strong interpersonal bonds. In so doing, Berr reconstructs a self that most clearly approximates her identity before persecution began.

For a time, this allows Berr to cope with the extreme conditions of her environment by permitting a safe haven in which she can renegotiate her identity.

Towards the end of the diary, however, there is a transition in Berr’s marked codeswitches from the use of her own words to the citation of English literature. Berr uses these passages to repeatedly confront death and indirectly express that she experiences herself as having died. The translation of Berr’s authorial voice onto English literature allows her to most closely approximate the destruction and death of herself as subject.

However, from this new position, she is able to speak by appropriating literary citations as if they were her own words. In doing so, Berr is able to testify despite her inability to bear witness directly in the first-person.

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Chapter 3: Translating Across Literary Genres in La Douleur by Marguerite Duras

La Douleur (1985) by Marguerite Duras is composed of six short stories addressing trauma in the context of World War II. The first two texts are autobiographical, while the rest are increasingly fictional. Although these six texts appear to be vastly different on the surface, my analysis will show that they all share the same underlying structure and are linked together by a series of substitutions and inversions. Each story repeats the same relational configuration found in “La douleur,” but magnifies and inverts one element in an attempt to gain mastery over it.

La Douleur can be read as testimony because it fulfills the criteria set forth by

Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub. However, it also challenges this model because Duras extends her autobiographical pact to encompass the entire work. While the autobiographical narratives testify of real events, the increasingly fictional texts bears witness to Duras’s internal realities as she attempts to process trauma. In “La Douleur,” the autobiographical narrator exhibits a death of self and an inability to maintain the first- person throughout the narrative. To compensate, she translates her authorial voice across literary genres. In the first translation movement—from autobiography to autofiction—the narrator reconstructs a powerful self who approximates her identity before she was destroyed, thereby regaining control and subjectivity. In the second translation movement—from autofiction to fiction—the narrator recreates a vulnerable self who most closely resembles her destroyed being. However, in fiction, the narrator is able express emotions that she is unable to access in the realm of autobiography.

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Testimony

La Douleur fulfills the criteria for testimony as outlined by Felman and Laub because it is a mode through which the reader can access truth, the narrator takes responsibility for truth-telling, she bears witness as a form of action, reclaims the position of witness, and the listener allows the narrator to become more aware of her story.

Numerous critics have classified the first two autobiographical texts in La Douleur as testimony. For example, they have been said to bear witness to the narrator’s feelings and reactions to events, to the testimonies given by others (Kritzman 64, Kelly 67), to the ignorance of those awaiting the return of loved ones (Davis 172), to the annihilation of memory and the necessity of forgetting (Wilson 142, 148), to the process of bearing witness

(Wilson 141, Kritzman 64, Loew 276), or alternately, to the impossibility of bearing witness

(Hill 129). Several scholars, including Jennifer Willging and Fadhila Laouani, have also argued that the autobiographical pact extends to include the first four texts (Willging

Anxiety 27, Laouani 52). However, I will argue that the entirety of La Douleur can be read as testimony, including the last two fictional texts. In order to make such a claim, I rely on

Philippe Lejeune’s work concerning how an autobiographical pact can be extended across genres.

Felman defines testimony as a mode that allows the reader to access truth

(Testimony 18, Claims 296). “La Douleur” fulfills this function because Robert L.’s recovery is described in detail. In addition, dates at the beginning of passages provide a verifiable time frame (Willging “Real” 190) 1 and numerous details are given to suggest that the journal is both factually and historically accurate (Willging “True” 371). “Monsieur X., dit ici Pierre

Rabier” also allows the reader to access truth because it describes frequent meetings with

1 However, Camila Loew points out the artificiality of this chronological time span, since in April 1945 (on page 58), the narrator refers to an event that only occurs in November of 1945 (278). 55

Rabier and summarizes discussions between resistance members. Thus, both autobiographical texts can be considered modes that permit access to truth.

Felman contends that a person must take responsibility for truth-telling in order to testify (Claims 295). In “La Douleur,” the narrator assumes this responsibility when she includes the remembering process in her narrative. For example, she writes: “Je ne sais plus quel jour c’était, si c’était encore un jour d’avril, non c’était un jour de mai, un matin à onze heures le téléphone a sonné” (65) [“I can’t remember what day it was, whether it was in

April, no, it was a day in May when one morning at eleven o’clock the phone rang” (50)].

This seeming transparency is meant to increase the narrator’s credibility and demonstrate her commitment to telling the truth. Consequently, the reader is more apt to assume that events are recounted accurately if no such doubts are expressed. In addition, the narrator makes a truth-claim by emphasizing the supposedly un-edited state of the text (12, 33). By ostensibly preserving the narrative from revisions, 2 the narrator assumes responsibility for telling the truth as accurately as possible. In the preface to “Monsieur X., dit ici Pierre

Rabier,” the narrator also makes an explicit truth-claim, stating: “Il s’agit d’une histoire vraie jusque dans le détail” (90) [“This is a true story, right down to the details” (71)]. If this rather “bold and characteristically imprudent claim” (Willging “True” 369) prompts readers to investigate details and make counter-claims,3 it is precisely because Duras takes responsibility for the truth. Regardless of errors in the details provided or the extent of revisions made, the essential element is that Duras claims responsibility for telling the truth.

2 Jennifer Willging and Leslie Hill contend that revisions to La Douleur are in fact quite substantial. The texts in La Douleur are more sophisticated (Willging “Toeing” 464) and dramatic (Hill 125) than those found in Cahiers de la guerre. 3 Factual errors include: the time of day or the restaurant establishment mentioned (Willging “Real” 197) and the cherry clafoutis (Vallier 683 in Willging “Real” 201). Alternative versions of events are also given by Pierre Péan (Willging « True » 369). 56

Felman views testimony as a form of action through which a person reclaims the role of witness (Testimony 85). “La douleur” fulfills this criteria when Duras writes: “Chaque jour [Ginetta] croit que je pourrais parler de [Robert L.] et je ne peux pas encore. Mais ce jour-là je lui ai dit que je pensais pouvoir le faire un jour. Et que déjà j’avais écrit un peu sur ce retour” (84) [Every day [Ginetta] thinks I’m going to be able to talk about [Robert L.], and

I still can’t. But that day I tell her I think I shall be able to one day. And that I’ve already written something about that return” (67)]. Here, telling is equated with doing, and can therefore be considered a form of action. Although the narrator was apparently unable to recount her experiences orally, she succeeded in writing about them since she published La

Douleur. In “Monsieur X., dit ici Pierre Rabier,” the narrator explicitly claims the role of witness, describing herself in relation to Rabier as “le témoin le mieux renseigné sur son activité à la Gestapo, le plus dangereux pour lui, le plus crédible: écrivain et femme de résistant, moi” (102) [“the best witness to his activity in the Gestapo, the most credible and the most dangerous witness against him: a writer, the wife of a member of the Resistance.

Me” (82)]. Writing goes hand in hand with resistance, and can therefore be considered a form of action. Not only does the narrator claim the position of witness, but it becomes an important part of her identity.

According to Laub, the presence of a listener is essential to the existence of testimony, as it allows the witness to become more aware of her story. This dynamic is illustrated in the preface to “La douleur”:

Comment ai-je pu écrire cette chose que je ne sais pas encore nommer et qui m’épouvante quand je la relis. Comment ai-je pu de même abandonner ce texte pendant des années dans cette maison de campagne régulièrement inondée en hiver. La première fois que je m’en soucie, c’est à partir d’une demande que me fait la revue Sorcières d’un texte de jeunesse. La douleur est une des choses les plus importantes de ma vie. Le mot “écrit” ne convient pas. (12)

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How could I have written this thing I still can’t put a name to, and that appalls me when I reread it? And how could I have left it lying for years in a house in the country that’s regularly flooded in winter? The first time I thought about it was when the magazine Sourcières asked me for a text I’d written when I was young. The War is one of the most important things in my life. It can’t really be called “writing.” (4)

At first, the narrator is not fully aware of her text, as demonstrated through her inability to name what she has written and her leaving behind the text in an environment where it could be destroyed. It is not until an appropriate audience is found—la revue Sorcières— that the narrator feels concern for the text and realizes that it is, in fact, one of the most important things in her life. In a similar way, the intended reader of “Monsieur X., dit ici

Pierre Rabier,” Robert L., allows her to become more aware of her text. Duras writes: “Je prends ces notes à l’intention de Robert L. pour quand il rentrera” (101) [“I take these notes to give to Robert L. when he comes back” (82)]. Immediately afterward, the narrator imagines testifying against Rabier (102). This transition demonstrates the important link between the presence of a listener and the narrator’s ability to testify, even in the realm of her imagination.

The two autobiographical texts in La Douleur can be considered to be testimony as defined by Felman and Laub. However, La Douleur also goes beyond this conception of translation because Duras enacts a series of translations through which she re-emerges in the realm of fiction. Although Duras uses autobiography to testify of true events, auto- fiction and fiction allow her to construct meaning and express otherwise inaccessible emotions. Duras challenges the conception of truth because she does not remain tied to factual representation. Instead, multiple versions of the story allow important nuances to emerge.

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Philippe Lejeune’s work is helpful in understanding this kind of relationship between autobiography and fiction. He contends that when authors write both autobiography and fiction, they often indirectly extend the autobiographical pact to include the ensemble of their work. Neither genre has a monopoly on the truth because each text is read in relation to the others. What autobiography lacks in complexity and ambiguity, the novel lacks in factual accuracy. Lejeune calls this double writing “stereography,” meaning that the two genres must be together in order to be fully understood (Lejeune 42). This is exactly the kind of writing that occurs in La Douleur. Duras can be said to extend indirectly her autobiographical pact to the entirety of the work because each text is read and contextualized in relation to the others. The autobiographical narratives shape how the reader approaches the increasingly fictional texts; these later works, in turn, shed light on the autobiographical texts by allowing ambiguities, complexities, and emotional truths to come to light. Together, the ensemble of these interdependent texts bears witness to

Duras’s experiences during World War II. The difficulty of accepting auto-fiction or fiction as testimony is reduced because all six texts explore the same traumatic experience—in particular, the death of the narrator’s former self as expressed in “La Douleur.” The structure of La Douleur is consistent with this interpretation, since “La Douleur” constitutes the entirety of Part I, while all the other narratives are found in Part II. Otherwise, it would be difficult to explain why the autobiographical text “Monsieur X., dit ici Pierre Rabier” is placed with the more fictionalized works. In my reading of La douleur, I interpret the book title to apply to all six texts, indicating their sameness, while the titles in quotation marks indicate the particularities of each version. Rather than contradicting one another, the multiplicity of versions allows their underlying structure to become more apparent. In this manner, Duras’s testimony is structured as a myth as explicated by Claude Levi-Strauss

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(428-444). In many ways, La Douleur explores the myth of Truth—and the truth of myth— in the process of bearing witness.

Destruction of self

In “La douleur,” the narrator experiences a destruction of self during the wait for news about Robert L. She demonstrates numerous physical, mental, and emotional symptoms that indicate that she is unable to cope with events. Ultimately, the narrator exhibits a detachment from her body, a displacement of her identity, and the death of her former self when news of Robert L. is finally received. The destruction of the narrator’s self has been remarked by several scholars. Bajormée calls “La douleur” “la recherché patiente et têtue de la perte d’identité” (24) [“the patient and stubborn pursuit of the loss of identity”], Carruggi labels it “une exploration et une contemplation de la dissolution du sujet” (51) [“an exploration and contemplation of the dissolution of the subject” (my translation)] and Languian refers to it as “[une] déconstruction physique et psychique” (12)

[“a physical and psychic deconstruction” (my translation)]. These comments show just how much the destruction of the narrator’s self is central to the narrative.

The narrator documents numerous physical symptoms including headaches (14,

15), dizziness (42), vomiting (42, 44, 79), fatigue (44), fever (52), and immobility (14, 49).

In particular, headaches are triggered by the fear of Robert L.’s death (14) and by the internalization and appropriation of his imagined death. For example, Duras writes: “Sa mort est en moi. Elle bat à mes tempes. On ne peut pas s’y tromper” (15) [“His death is in me, beating in my head. No mistake about it” (6)]. Headaches create a connection to Robert

L., as if the narrator can share in his experience by enduring physical pain with him. The narrator believes that she can increase Robert L.’s chances of living by increasing the similarities between the two of them. This mimetic experience is exhibited during Robert

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L.’s recovery as well (78). Moreover, the narrator experiences nausea and vomiting related to the uncertainty of Robert L.’s status. For example, she writes: “Cette nuit, on n’a pas encore téléphoné. . . [j]e prends un cachet de corydrane. Les vertiges vont cesser et cette envie de vomir” (42) [By last night they still hadn’t phoned. . . [I] take a corydrane tablet.

The giddiness will go, and the nausea” (30)] and “Ca [D.’s paino playing] fait mal dans la tête et ça fait revenir la nausée. C’est curieux tout de même, aucune nouvelle jusqu’à ce point”

(44) [It [D.’s piano playing] hurts my head and makes me feel like throwing up. But it is strange just the same, being left so completely without news” (32)]. Although the narrator attributes her nausea in the second instance to D.’s piano playing, the lack of news is the more likely cause, since both instances of nausea occur in close proximity to a lack of news about Robert L. Nausea can be interpreted as the narrator’s desire to physically expulse the possibility of a loved one’s death. This is supported by the fact that she vomits after informing Robert L. that his younger sister died in the camps: “J’ai vomi. Je crois qu’on a tous vomi” (79) [I vomited. I think we all did” (63)]. The internalization of pain through headaches and the externalization of the idea of death through vomiting indicate a difficulty maintaining stable boundaries of the self.4 These psychosomatic symptoms point to an overwhelming of the self and an inability to cope with events.

The narrator also exhibits mental symptoms that include difficulties thinking (15,

48), processing language (33, 47, 48), planning more than a few days ahead (47), and spatial disorientation (49). For example, the narrator loses her ability to read: “On a essayé de lire, on aura tout essayé, mais l’enchainement des phrases ne se fait plus, pourtant on soupçonne qu’il existe” (47) [“You’ve tried to read, you’ll have tried everything, but the words don’t connect with one another any more, though you suspect the connection does exist” (35)].

4 See Beauclair for an interesting discussion of unstable boundaries between self and other in Hiroshima mon amour (92) 61

Her illiteracy suggests an overload in the temporal lobe of the cerebral cortex, which is involved in comprehending language and creating meaning.The narrator exhibits an inability to plan long-term: “Nous pouvons prévoir un jour de plus à vivre. Nous ne pouvons plus prévois trois jours” (47) [“We can think in terms of one more day to live. We can’t think in terms of three more days” (34)]. This incapacity suggests an overload of the frontal lobe, which is involved in planning, organizing, and problem-solving. The narrator also demonstrates spatial disorientation, pointing to an overload in the parietal lobe: “Je ne sais pas où [Robert L.] se trouve. Je ne sais plus non plus où je suis. Je ne sais pas où nous nous trouvons. Quel est le nom de cet endroit-ci ?” (49) [“I don’t know where [Robert L.] is. I don’t know where I am either. I don’t know where we are. What is this place called?” (37)].

Together, the numerous mental symptoms described intimate that the narrator’s brain is overloaded beyond its capacity to process events.

The narrator also exhibits difficulty coping emotionally, as demonstrated through what psychologists call learned helplessness, fear, and uncontrollable crying. Learned helpless, as described by psychologists Martin Seligman and Steven Maier, occurs when an individual is repeatedly subjected to inescapable negative stimuli. After numerous failed attempts to modify the situation, the individual will give up and stop trying due to the belief that he or she is utterly helpless. This belief prevents any kind of future action, even when new opportunities to improve the situation become available (Maier 17). The narrator’s learned helplessness is exhibited in the following citation:

Moi, l’enfant que nous avons eu avec Robert L., il est mort à la naissance – de la guerre lui aussi – les docteurs se déplaçaient rarement la nuit pendant la guerre, ils n’avaient pas assez d’essence. Je suis donc seule. Pourquoi économiser de la force dans mon cas. (33)

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The child we had, Robert L. and I, was born dead, he died in the war too: doctors don’t usually go out at night during the war, they hadn’t enough gas. So I’m on my own. Why should I husband my strength? (23)

Because the narrator could not do anything in the past to save her infant, she believes that she cannot do anything to preserve her self in the present either. The use of a period instead of a question mark in the last sentence indicates that she has given up. Indeed, the narrator ignores her state of personal hygiene and her basic human needs for food and sleep (33).

The narrator also demosntrates difficulty coping through her manifestation of diffuse fear:

“Sur le coup de dix heures, tout à coup, chez moi, la peur était rentrée. La peur de tout. Je m’étais retrouvée dehors ” (49) [“There in my apartment, suddenly, on the stroke of ten, fear had entered in. Fear of everything. And I’d found myself outside in the street” (36)].The sudden onset of fear is highlighted through the use of “sur le coup” and “tout à coup”

[“suddenly”] while its omnipresence is expressed by “tout” [“everything”]. In addition, helplessness is signaled through a lack of agency, since the narrator does not go outside, but rather finds herself there. The narrator also exhibits difficulty coping by crying uncontrollably. She writes: “Dès ce nom, Robert L., je pleure. Je pleure encore. Je pleurerai toute ma vie” (84) [“At the name, Robert L., I weep. I still weep. I shall weep all my life”

(67)]. The unending flow of tears is evoked through repetition and the transition from the past, to the present, to the future. These emotional symptoms indicate that the weight of events have exceeded the narrator’s capacity to process them.

The narrator attempts to cope with Robert L.’s absence through strategies such as self-imposed obligations, self-talk, and “if-then” statements. However, the success of these efforts appears to be limited. The narrator frequently imposes obligations upon herself, including: “il faut que je fasse attention” (13) [“I must be careful” (5)], “il faut que je sois raisonnable” (14) [“I must be sensible” (5)], and “Il faut que je me décide à prendre un bain

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en rentrant” (33) [“I must make up my mind to take a bath when I get in” (22)]. These obligations revolve around states of being—alertness, reasonableness, lucidity, and resolve—and therefore can be interpreted as an attempt to preserve the self’s integrity.

Secondly, the narrator employs self-talk. First developed by Vygotsky, self-talk (or private speech) links words, actions, and ideas together, facilitating planning, critical thinking, and executive functions. Typically, this verbalized speech is internalized after childhood

(Vygotsky 60-73). However, the narrator exhibits self-talk in passages such as: “Est-ce que je vais encore demander? Oui. Je le demande” (14) [“Am I going to ask again? Yes. ‘What do you think?’ I ask” (6)]. This dialogue demonstrates an attempt to think through a decision, but also reveals the extent to which the narrator’s mental processes have been slowed down. Thirdly, the narrator makes “if-then” statements to reduce her anxiety about Robert

L.’s state. For example, she decides: “Si je n’ai pas de nouvelles ce soir, il est mort” (59) [“If I don’t have any news by tonight, he’s dead” (45)] or “Il [ne] sera jamais [sur la liste des survivantes] si c’est moi qui les lis” (15) [“He’ll never be on [the list of survivors if] I read them” (6)]. These beliefs, which Kritzman calls “magical thinking” (65), can be interpreted as an attempt to gain control over an unpredictable and threatening environment. Despite the narrator’s best efforts to cope with her distress, the strategies she employs appear to be limited in their effectiveness.

Ultimately, the narrator exhibits detachment from her body, a displacement of her identity, and the death of her self. Detachment is exhibited in passages such as: “Dans la rue je dors. Les mains dans les poches, bien calées, les jambes avancent” (15) [“In the street I am like a sleepwalker. My hands are thrust deep into my pockets, my legs move forward” (7)] and “Sans m’en rendre compte j’ai avancé, je me tiens au milieu de la salle d’honneur, le dos au micro” (31) [“Without realizing it I’ve moved forward, I’m in the middle of the hall with

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my back to the loudspeaker” (20)]. In the first example, the self sleeps while individual body-parts take control. In the second instance, the self is unaware that the body has moved forward, only regaining spatial awareness afterwards. These descriptions indicate that the narrator has difficulty staying present and connected to her body. Moreover, the narrator also exhibits a displacement of self. In the following passages, she attempts to infuse her life into Robert L. in order to keep him alive: “Je voudrais pouvoir lui donner ma vie ” (46) [I’d like to give him my life” (34)] and “Mon identité s’est déplacée. Je suis seulement. . . celle qui veut à sa place, pour lui” (79) [“My identity has gone. I’m just. . . she who wills in his stead, for him” (63)]. Although originally used as a coping strategy to manage anxiety, this link is problematic because the narrator remains inseparable from Robert L. even when she imagines that he is dead (Brown “Amour” 41-42, Beauclair 93, Wilson 147). For example,

Duras writes: “Je m’endors près de lui tous les soirs, dans le fossé noir, près de lui mort”

(20) [“I fall asleep beside him every night, in the black ditch, beside him as he lies dead”

(10)] and “J’ai hâte de rentrer, de m’enfermer avec le téléphone, de retrouver le fossé noir”

(32) [“I can’t wait to get back, to shut myself up with the telephone, be back again in the black ditch” (22)]. In these instances, connection to Robert L. takes precedence over all else, and sleep blends with death to create a shared experience in the grave-like ditch.

Passages related to the death of the narrator’s former self occur in four distinct stages: a projection of her death, a separation from self upon receiving news of Robert L., an erasure of self when he returns home, and her astonishment at continuing to live afterwards. During the waiting period for news of Robert L., the narrator foretells of her impending death. She links the end of waiting to the end of her life (17) regardless of whether Robert L. returns home or not (39): “Je serai morte. Dès son retour je mourrai, impossible qu’il en soit autrement, c’est mon secret. D. ne le sait pas. J’ai choisi de l’attendre

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comme je l’attends, jusqu’à en mourir. Ça me regarde” (40) [“I’ll be dead. As soon as he comes back I shall die, it can’t be otherwise, it’s my secret. D. doesn’t know. I’ve chosen to wait for Robert like this, unto death” (28)]. The narrator’s choice to die can be interpreted as a way to achieve a sense of control in a completely unpredictable situation. Declaring her death to be inevitable provides stability regardless of what happens (49) as well as an escape from overwhelming emotions (50). In the following citation, the narrator mentally prepares for what this death will be like, performing her own death. For this reason, it is worth quoting at length:

Et tout à coup la certitude, la certitude en rafale : il est mort. Mort. Mort. . . . C’était arrivé en une seconde. Plus de battement aux temps. Ce n’est plus ça. Mon visage se défait, il change. Je me défais, je me déplie, je change. Il n’y a personne dans la chambre où je suis. Je ne sens plus mon cœur. L’horreur monte lentement dans une inondation, je me noie. Je n’attends plus tellement j’ai peur. C’est fini, c’est fini ? Où es-tu? Comment savoir? Je ne sais pas où il se trouve. Je ne sais plus non plus où je suis. Je ne sais pas où nous nous trouvons. Quel est le nom de cet endroit-ci ? Qu’est-ce que c’est que cet endroit ? Qu’est-ce que c’est que toute cette histoire ? De quoi s’agit-il ? Qui c’est ça, Robert L.? Plus de douleur. Je suis sur le point de comprendre qu’il n’y a plus rien de commun entre cet homme et moi. Autant en attendre un autre. Je n’existe plus. Alors du moment que je n’existe plus, pourquoi attendre Robert L.? Plus rien de commun entre cet homme et elle. Qui est ce Robert L., quoi ? Qu’est-ce qui fait qu’il soit attendu, lui et pas un autre. Qu’est-ce qu’elle attend en vérité ? Quelle autre attente attend-elle ? A quoi joue-t-elle depuis quinze jours qu’elle se monte la tête avec cette attente-là? Que se passe-t-il dans cette chambre ? Qui est-elle? Qui est elle, D. le sait. Où est D.? Elle le sait, elle peut le voir et lui demander des explications. Il faut que je le voie parce qu’il y a quelque chose de nouveau qui est arrivé. Je suis allé le voir. En apparence rien n’était arrivé. (49-50)

And suddenly certainty, certainty burst in: he’s dead. Dead. The twenty-first of April, died on the twenty-first of April. I’d stood up and gone to the middle of the room. It happened in the space of a second. No more throbbing in my head. Not now. My face falls apart, changes. I fall apart, come undone, change. There’s no one in the room where I am. I can’t feel my heart any more. Horror mounts in a slow flood, I’m drowning. I’m so afraid, I’m not waiting any more. Is it all over? Is it? Where are you? How can I tell? I don’t 66

know where he is. I don’t know where I am either. I don’t know where we are. What’s this place called? What sort of place is it? What is all this business? What’s it all about? Robert L., who is he? No more pain. I’m on the point of realizing that there’s no longer anything in common between this man and me. I might just as well be waiting for another. I no longer exist. So, if I no longer exist, why wait for Robert L.? Is she wants to wait, why not wait for another? She and this man no longer have anything in common. Who is this Robert L.? Has he ever existed? What is it that makes him Robert L.? Why should he be waited for, he rather than another? What is she really waiting for? What other waiting? What has she been playing at for the last couple of weeks, working herself up with this waiting? What’s going on in that room? Who is she? D. knows who she is. Where is D.? She knows she can see him and ask him for explanations. I must see him because something new has happened. I went to see him. Apparently nothing had happened. (37)

In this passage, a strong desire for certainty is expressed. Repetition is used to emphasize the essence of an idea (the narrator is certain-certain that Robert L. is dead-dead-dead) as if this will somehow make it more true. The need for certainty becomes more important than the truth. Thus, the narrator convinces herself that Robert L. is dead and performs her own death to avoid the ensuing pain. Her disconnection affects her face, her whole body, and then her entire sense of self. However, it does not achieve the desired result because the narrator wonders, “C’est fini? C’est fini?” [“Is it all over? Is it?”] Her questions indicate uncertainty—the very thing she was willing to die for in order to avoid. The narrator exhibits spatial disorientation and a loss of basic lack of knowledge regarding who she is, who Robert L. is, and what she is waiting for. While frightening, this willed amnesia is an attempt to avoid pain: if she no longer exists, she no longer has to wait for Robert L, and thus she will no longer feel anything. Indeed, the moment she no longer knows who Robert

L. is, the narrator stops feeling pain: “Plus de douleur” [“No more pain”]. Her questions then transition to more immediate concerns about her surroundings, which demonstrates increased awareness and connection to the present. The first indication of knowing is

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attributed to D. Once his name is evoked, the narrator re-takes possession of her body and assumes the first-person je [“I”] again. Back in her body once more, the insurmountable task of waiting immediately resumes.

When the long-awaited phone call finally arrives, the narrator falls to the ground as if she were dead. She exhibits a detachment from her body and describes the scene in the third-person:

Elle n’essaye plus d’arracher le téléphone. Elle est par terre, tombée. Quelque chose a crevé avec les mots disant qu’il était vivant il y a deux jours. Elle laisse faire. Ca crève, ça sort par la bouche, par le nez, par les yeux. . . . Ca sort aussi en plaintes, en cris. Ca sort de toutes les façons que ça veut. Elle laisse faire. (51)

She doesn’t try to grab the phone again. She’s on the floor, fallen on the floor. Something gave way at the words saying he was alive two days ago. She offers no resistance. It bursts out through her mouth, her nose, her eyes. . . It comes out however it likes. Comes out. She offers no resistance. (38)

The narrator’s body has been emptied of everything, including sound, bodily fluids, and identity. It is not until she tastes coffee—an internalization—that the je [“I”] returns to the body and the narrator is able to speak again using the first-person: “Le gout du café chaud:

Il vit. Je m’habille très vite” (52) [That taste of hot coffee. He’s alive. I dress very quickly”

(39)]. Thus, in both her performance of death while waiting and in the death of her self upon receiving news, the narrator dissociates from her body and is unable to maintain a first-person subject position.

The narrator also loses control of her self is when Robert L. returns home. As

Llewellyn Brown cogently argues, the narrator projects an internal belief—in which Robert

L. has died—onto the external world, creating an “extimate” reality (38). While longed for,

Robert L.’s return shatters the narrator’s fantasy world (39), and in consequence, the identity she has created based on this false reality. An erasure of self is exhibited in the

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narrative because the character-I is replaced by the narrator-I on two occasions: “Je ne sais plus exactement. . . Je hurlais, de cela je me souviens. . . Je ne sais plus quand je me suis retrouvée devant lui [Robert L.]. Je me souviens des sanglots partout dans la maison” (69) [I can’t remember exactly what happened. . . I was shrieking, I remember that. . . I can’t remember when I found myself back with him [Robert L.] again. I remember hearing sobs all over the house” (53-54)]. Although this passage maintains the first-person, there is a distinction between the moment of narration and the moment of the event. The character-I is erased by the narrator-I’s comments and inability to remember. As Willging, Kritzman, and Hill have argued, this technique can be interpreted as a defense mechanism because it increases the distance to the event (Willging “True” 375, Kritzman 65, Hill 125). However, it may also compensate for a lack of self during the actual event.

Finally, the narrator expresses surprise and astonishment at continuing to live after

Robert L.’s return: “Parfois je m’étonne de ne pas mourir : une lame glacée enfoncée profond dans la chair vivante, de nuit, de jour et on survit” (79) [“Sometimes I’m amazed I don’t die; a cold blade plunged deep into the living flesh, night and day, and you survive”

(63)]. Because she has associated her love for Robert L. with the certainty of her death, it is as if the narrator has failed somehow when she continues to live (Beauclair 95).

The narrator exhibits numerous physical, mental, and emotional symptoms that demonstrate her inability to cope with the long wait for news of Robert L. Despite her best efforts to cope, the narrator exhibits unawareness of her internal states, a detachment from her body, and ultimately a death of her self. In consequence, she is unable to maintain a first-person subject position throughout the narrative.

Working through in “La Douleur”

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In what follows, I will show that all six texts in La Douleur contain the same underlying structure. In order to achieve resolution, the six narratives are linked together through a series of relational substitutions and oppositions. Each story repeats the original trauma narrative, but magnifies and inverts one element in an attempt to gain mastery over it. These elements include the overwhelming absence of Robert L., the narrator’s powerlessness as she waits for news, her inability to recognize Robert L.’s body when he returns home, her inability to feed him, and the destruction of the narrator’s self as subject.

Underlying the assimilation of external oppositions is the parallel integration of internal oppositions—notably, the narrator’s conscious and unconscious awareness, though which the self is created. Thus, from beginning to end, La Douleur charts the death and rebirth of the narrator’s self as subject.

Michelle Beauclair notes the propensity for Durasian characters simply to replace a lost love object (Beauclair 96). Indeed, precedence is set for substituting Robert L. in “La

Douleur,” since the narrator informs him that she would like a divorce in order to have a child with her lover (80). The narrative function of this abrupt and shocking replacement is that it allows all future substitutions to become conceivable: nothing remains outside the domain of possibility. This substitution is linked to sexual desire, which is significant because all future substitutions appear to have the same motivation. This is not surprising since Duras states: “[Q]uand les femmes n’écrivent pas dans le lieu du désir, elles n’écrivent pas, elles sont dans le plagiat” (Duras in Ramsay 203) [“When women don’t write in a place of desire, they don’t write, they plagiarize” (my translation)].

Substitution in “Monsieur X., dit ici Pierre Rabier”

In “Monsieur X., dit ici Pierre Rabier” Rabier can be said to be a substitute for Robert

L. because his overpowering presence replaces Robert L.’s overwhelming absence, and his

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godlike power contrasts with Robert L.’s helplessness. Notwithstanding, these oppositions are similar in nature because the intensity of both absence and presence have the potential to destroy the narrator. However, while, as I have argued, the narrator’s self is destroyed by

Robert L.’s presence (his return shatters her conception of self), it is only in danger of being destroyed by Rabier’s presence (96, 103, 127). In “Monsieur X., dit ici Pierre Rabier,” the narrator speaks from a limit-position where presence and absence can be processed without the self actually being destroyed. For example, in the most intense scene, the narrator believes that Rabier is about to kill her. However, the first-person pronoun does not become unstable like it does in “La Douleur.” Instead, it remains painfully present:

Dans la peur le sang se retire de la tête, le mécanisme de la vision se trouble. Je vois les grands immeubles du carrefour de Sèvres tanguer dans le ciel et les trottoirs se creuser, noircir. Je n’entends plus clairement. La surdité est relative. Le bruit de la rue devient feutré, il ressemble à la rumeur uniforme de la mer. Mais j’entends bien la voix de Rabier. J’ai le temps de penser que c’est la dernière fois de ma vie que je vois une rue. (106-107)

In my fear the blood ebbs from my head, the mechanism of vision wavers. I can see the tall buildings at the Sèvres crossing swaying about in the sky and the sidewalks going hollow and black. I can’t hear properly. But the deafness is relative. The street noises are muffled, like the regular murmur of the sea. But I can hear Rabier’s voice quite clearly. I just have time to think that this is the last time I shall ever see a street. (87)

In this passage, the narrator is able to detail the various changes that occur to her senses and thought processes. Although terrified, she occupies a limit-position in which she is almost—but not quite—destroyed. As such, the narrator exhibits increased distress tolerance in this text. Although historically, “Monsieur X., dit ici Pierre Rabier” occurred before “La douleur,” it can be read as the first step in processing the death of self portrayed in “La douleur” due to its position in the narrative.

Substitution in “Albert des Capitales”

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In “Albert des Capitales,” the third narrative in La douleur, the first-person autobiographical narrator, Marguerite, is translated into the character Thérèse, who has both a commanding voice and a powerfully sexual body. As such, Thérèse represents a recreation of self whose subjectivity is most like the narrator before she was destroyed. In the preface, Duras writes: “Thérèse c’est moi. Celle qui torture le donneur, c’est moi. De même celle qui a envie de faire l’amour avec Ter le milicien, moi” (138) [“Thérèse is me. The person who tortures the informer is me. So also is the one who feels like making love to Ter, the member of the Militia. Me” (115)]. Ownership is claimed of the character’s identity, actions, and desires. For this reason, Laouani and Willging argue that the autobiographical pact is implicitly extended to include both “Albert des Capitales” and “Ter le milicien”

(Laouani 52, Willging Anxiety 27). Through substitution, it appears that Thérèse is able to express both the hatred and the desire for Rabier that the narrator is unable to voice in the first person.5

The informant in “Albert des Capitales” can be interpreted as a substitute for Pierre

Rabier.6 For example, both men are strongly associated with the Gestapo office on the rue des Saussaies (92, 156). The informant is described in the following manner: “‘Il y entrait. Il dit qu’il y entrait.’ A LA GESTAPO. RUE DES SAUSSAIES” (156) [“‘He went there. He said he went there.’ To the Gestapo, in the rue des Saussaies” (130)]. The use of all capital letters to refer to this building foregrounds its importance and indicates that the spatial overlap is an essential part of the narrative. Both men are also labeled as informants. Rabier is called an informant twice (102, 132), and the tortured man is always referred to as such (141, 143,

145, 146, 148, 149, 153, 154, 159, 161, 162). One of Rabier’s characteristics is magnified

5 The preface, in which the implied author is able to express these feelings, was certainly written shortly before publication (that is, after she had worked through trauma). 6 Alternately, Laouani interprets the informant as the opposite of the deportee, who then becomes his double by serving as a scape-goat (Laouani 54). 72

until it becomes the entire identity of the other man. Rabier and the informant also share physical characteristics. For example, they are both described as near-sighted (116, 149,

158), and attention is paid to their keys (110, 144) and their shoes (116, 151). The inordinate amount of attention given to the informant’s shoes suggests an importance that goes beyond the mere physical object and supports a meaningful connection between the two men. Rabier and the informant act in similar ways: they both tremble (111, 154), fail to observe important details (96, 167), and are perceived to be lying (118, 160). In both instances, lying is linked to power. Rabier’s lie is used to control the narrator and highlight his dominance. Because the narrator cannot draw attention to the lie, it must be glossed over as if it never happened. In “Albert des Capitales,” however, the lie is magnified to the utmost degree and is used to justify Thérèse’s absolute control over the informant. Shared physical characteristics, similar behavior, and spatial overlaps permit transference of identity from one man to the other, allowing the narrator to work through feelings of powerlessness that she experienced in relation to the Gestapo agent. In particular, she is able to express her desire to kill the informant: “Elle prétendait qu’elle aurait voulu qu’on tue les prisonniers allemands. . .Tout le monde avait ri mais depuis on la tenait un peu à l’écart” (146) [“She said she wished they’d kill German prisoners. . . Everyone had laughed, but since then they’d all rather steered clear of her” (121)]. Dangerous and socially unacceptable desires are able to be expressed when they are translated into the realm of auto-fiction, which is a literary space associated with less risk than autobiography.

Albert, referred to in the story’s title, can be interpreted as a substitute for Robert L. because he is primarily defined by his absence from the narrative, as Robert L. is by his absence from most of “La douleur.” “Robert” and “Albert” share the same name ending, which helps to create fluidity between their identities. Albert’s importance is demonstrated

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because his name appears in the title and is written in capital letters (143). Furthermore, his identity is created through a series of consolidations, as seen in the notations found in the informant’s calendar: “De loin en loin au début, on trouve l’indication complète: ALBERT

DES CAPITALES. Ensuite: ALBERT ou CAPITALES, seules. A la fin du carnet, à chaque page, seulement: CAP ou AL” (143) [“Every so often in the early pages it occurs in full: ‘Albert of the Capitals.’ Later it becomes just ‘Albert’ or ‘Capitals.’ In the last pages, just ‘Cap’ or ‘Al.’”

(117)]. This consolidation is consistent with the interpretation that Albert represents the essence of Robert L. In addition, the agenda is reminiscent of the diary kept by the narrator in “La Douleur” as she waited for news of Robert L.

While numerous similarities exist between characters, important differences alter the relational configuration—most notably, the power dynamic in “Monsieur X., dit ici

Pierre Rabier” is inverted in “Albert des Capitales.” While Rabier holds power over the narrator and conducts torture in “Monsieux X. dit ici Pierre Rabier,” it is Thérèse who controls the torture of the informant in “Albert des Capitales.” Similarly, the men carrying out Thérèse’s orders had previously been tortured by the Germans at Monluc prison in Lyon

(Willging “Toeing” 466). Likewise, fear is also inverted: the narrator experienced constant fear in the former story (99, 100, 108, 125), but it is the informant who is afraid in the latter.

Moreover, the resistance members, once in grave danger of being discovered themselves

(96), end up uncovering the secret identity of a German police officer (167). These inversions can be considered simple substitutions because power is abused in much the same way as before (Davis 179).

Despite the problematic abuse of power in both stories, progress is made in several key areas in “Albert des Capitales.” In this story, there is a reversal in hygiene. Although the

Gestapo agent is immaculately clean (116, 126), the informant is dirty and malodorous

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(153, 154). This emphasis on hygiene is important because there is a confusing contradiction between Rabier’s violent behavior and his pristine body; he does not seem to be “dirtied” by his actions. In the realm of auto-fiction, however, the informant’s appearance matches his character. This coherence is important because it allows the informant to represent everything that is reprehensible, abject and unappealing. Rabier is presented as virile (107) but the informant is desexualized even when naked: “Il a de vieux testicules flétris” (154) [“He has old, shriveled testicles” (128)]. This can be interpreted as a disambiguation of the narrator’s relationship towards Rabier. By splitting the narrator’s ambiguous relationship into overwhelmingly negative (the informant) and positive (Ter, who will be examined in the next section), the narrator can process complicated, conflicting, and illicit emotions. In “Albert des Capitales,” the semi-fictional character Thérèse experiences intensely negative emotions in an environment in which she is no longer in danger.

Substitution in “Ter le milicien”

Although the narrator expresses intense hatred for Rabier in “Monsieux X.,” she also expresses muted desire for him. For example, when Rabier is embarrassed because he was not able to stop a group of young people, the narrator describes him as “un amoureux

éconduit” (103) [“a rejected lover” (84)] and Rabier’s smile provokes a moment of affection later on: “Il me sourit encore gentiment et il me dit cela qui est inoubliable. Et adorable aussi si on est nazi” (130) [He still smiles at me kindly and says something unforgettable.

Charming too—if one is a Nazi” (107)]. In this passage, the Nazi officer is softened through his smile and his kindness. Even so, the use of “adorable” to describe him is an audacious oxymoron. The narrator’s ambiguous relationship with Rabier has not gone unnoticed by critics. Loew remarks that there is a “dangerous game of seduction between Rabier and

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Duras” (283), Kritzman interprets the narrator’s testimony for both the prosecutor and the defense as a possible sign of repressed affection (71), and Willging speculates as to whether the narrator felt “a strange sexual attraction toward this Gestapiste” (“True” 381). However, critics have not seen desire for Ter to be part of a larger pattern of transference.

Ter can be interpreted as a substitute for Rabier because the two men have similar physical characteristics, personality traits, possessions, and discourses. For example, both men are pale (133, 178, 179), well-dressed (116, 182), and wear expensive shoes (116,

181). These physical similarities are important so that desire can be satisfactorily transferred from Rabier onto Ter. The two men also share personality traits, since they are polite (93, 187), patient (101, 179), loners (114, 191), and lacking in foresight (126, 130,

189). An overlap in personality allows emotional connections to be transferred as well.

Furthermore, both Rabier and Ter make the same striking declaration that their enemies are loyal (119, 188), which implies an ambiguous yet long-lasting and committed relationship. Finally, both men possess guns for esthetic and psychological reasons (119,

183). The revolver, a classic phallic symbol, is excessively present since Rabier carries as many as six at one time.

While Rabier’s virility is mentioned (107), Ter’s sexuality is amplified until he is entirely defined by desire (both his and the narrator’s). For example, he said that he has slept with 395 women within the past year (192), women are equated with cigarettes, suggesting that Ter is just as addicted to sex as he is to nicotine (185), and his insistent gaze during his interrogation is interpreted by Thérèse to be sexual in nature, as opposed to an appeal for help (185). In addition, Ter is crudely referred to as a baiseur [“fucker”] (185).

These elements reduce Ter to raw sexual desire and make him, not women, the sexualized object. Indeed, Thérèse’s desire for Ter is explicitly stated in the preface to the auto-fictional

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texts: “Thérèse c’est moi. . . De même celle qui a envie de faire l’amour avec Ter le milicien, moi” (138) [Thérèse is me. . . So also is the one who feels like making love to Ter, the member of hte Militia. Me” (115)]. Ownership is taken of the character’s desires, which can be interpreted as successful appropriation and working-through of the narrator’s disavowed desire for Rabier. Indeed, the transference of desire from autobiography to auto- fiction would allow Duras to experience illicit desire in a semi-fictional literary setting associated with less risk (Willging “True” 382).

By splitting ambiguous emotions for Rabier, Thérèse is able to project hate onto the informant, experiencing extremely negative emotions, while projecting desire onto Ter, experiencing lust. As such, the character Thérèse allows Duras to express what the narrator cannot say directly in the first-person in the realm of autobiography.

In La Douleur, a second translation movement then occurs in which the narrator’s identity is transposed into the realm of fiction. Here, characters express vulnerability and fear, and most closely approximate the death of the narrator in “La Douleur.” An important difference, however, is that they are able to express emotions that remain inaccessible to the narrator in the realm of autobiography.

Substitution in “Ortie Brisée”

In the fifth story of the text, “Ortie Brisée,” Marcel (a 10-year old boy) can be interpreted as a continuation of the narrator’s and Thérèse’s identities. “Marcel” and

“Marguerite” (42) share the first syllable of their names, for example. Marcel is wearing a girl’s blouse (196), suggesting fluidity in his gender. Moreover, he shares physical characteristics with the narrator and Thérèse, including being very thin (99, 196) and having short, black hair (155, 196). However, unlike Thérèse, who has a powerful body and voice, Marcel is vulnerable (196). For example, he expresses fear and abandonment: “[L]a

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crainte devient plus proche, plus dense. L’enfant ne comprend rien à l’événement qui vient.

Il se trouve abandonné” (202) [“The boy doesn’t understand what is going on. He feels abandoned”(169)]. In this manner, the fictional character is able to experience vulnerability and fear that the narrator is unable to access in the realm of autobiography due to a disconnection from self.

Marcel is inseparable from his baby brother, whom he pushes around in a baby carriage. This body is also vulnerable, particularly because flies swarm around his eyes. The infant’s sleeping body is at once an image of death (a corpse covered by insects) and of new life. Speechless, the baby occupies a limit-position that closely approximates the death of the narrator’s self in “La douleur.”

The stranger in “Ortie brisée” can be interpreted as a substitute for Ter. First and foremost, Duras explicitly states in the preface that the stranger reminds her of Ter, citing his clothing, physical description, odor, and cigarettes to justify this association (194).

Duras’s comment allows characters’ identities to transfer across the barrier between auto- fiction and fiction in much the same way that her comment “Thérèse, c’est moi” permits fluidity between autobiographical and auto-fictional texts. In this manner, the autobiographical pact is indirectly extended to include all of the texts. In addition, both Ter and the stranger are slouched alone by a chimney or a trail (179, 206). In French, these words are phonetically similar (chemin / cheminée), creating a sort of spatial overlap. What is more, both Ter and the stranger are linked to plants. Ter is compared to plants in passages such as: “Comme une plante, aussi, Ter” (184) [“He’s like a plant, is Ter” (152)] and

“Comme une sorte de plante, Ter” (188) [“He’s like a sort of plant, is Ter” (155)]. For his part, the stranger is burned because he is unable to recognize a plant as a stinging nettle

(204). This is significant because a key element of “La Douleur” is that Robert L. is

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unrecognizable (66, 67, 69). “Ortie Brisée” can be interpreted as working through this troubling lack of recognition because the man Lucien tells the stranger the name of the plant, much like Robert L. who helps his friends to identify his unrecognizable body in the camps (66). The symbolic value of the plant may also be related to Robert L.’s “non-human”

(Winston 149) or vegetative-like state (Laouani 52) upon his return home, and because

Robert L.’s merde [“feces”] has a vegetal odor (74).

Lucien can be considered a substitute for Robert L. because both men are defined by their stomachs. Descriptions of Lucien are overwhelmingly focused on his consumption of food (198-200). Indeed, his eating is raised to the level of theater and is the major action of this otherwise mundane story. Similarly, the stomach is metonymic for Robert L., as eating comes to occupy his entire existence during his recovery (76).

“Ortie brisée” demonstrates progress because both Rabier (the stranger) and

Robert L. (Lucien) are present in the story, albeit in significantly altered form. In previous texts, one figure or the other was present, but never both at once. In this text, the two fictional characters attempt to begin a dialogue, interacting with each other for the first time. Despite major obstacles in their inter-comprehension, this attempt at integration is important because the two men begin to develop meaning in relation to each other, as opposed to remaining isolated and disconnected figures in separate narratives. Thus, headway is made by Duras to create one coherent account of experience.

The overarching theme of “Ortie brisée” is a lack of recognition and understanding.

Although the characters search for personal connection and comprehensibility, there is a strong opposing force that continually brings everyone back to a state of confusion and un- knowing (197, 203, 204). For example, dialogues break down between characters (204), and the stranger is fundamentally defined by his disconnection to himself and his

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surroundings (199, 201, 202). On a meta-level, the author herself does not recognize or understand what is happening in the story. In the preface, Duras writes: “ C’est de la littérature. J’étais du P.C.F sans doute à ce moment-là parce que c’était un texte qui avait trait à un affrontement de classes. . . .Je l’ai réécrit. Maintenant je ne sais plus de quoi il s’agit. Mais c’est un texte qui prend le large” (194) [“Literature. I was probably in the French

Communist Party at the time, because the story’s about a class confrontation. . . I have rewritten it. Now I can’t remember what it’s about. But it’s a text that takes off on its own”

(160)]. The author-I is like her characters in that not even she understands what is happening in the story. Thus, “Ortie Brisée” is the product of a displaced locus of control and meaning.

As such, this fictional story mirrors the alienation from self that the narrator experiences when she endures the death of her former self in “La Douleur.” For example, when the stranger asks about their geographical location, everyone is thrown into a state of confusion: “‘Où est-on ici ?’ demande l’étranger. L’enfant rit et puis il baisse les yeux, confus.

. . L’incertitude s’est emparée de l’homme” (199) [“‘Where are we?’ asks the stranger. The boy laughs, then looks down, [confused]. . . The man is seized with uncertainty” (166)]. This is significant because the narrator of “La Douleur” loses spatial orientation during the death of her self (49-50). Moreover, the stranger is said to carry a secret of death within him, much like the secret the narrator keeps about her inevitable death triggered by Robert L.’s return. Duras writes: “Il retient enfermé en lui une chose qu’il ne sait pas dire, livrer. Cela parce qu’il ne la connaît pas. Il ne sait pas comment on parle de la mort” (201) [“He has something shut up inside himself that he can’t say, can’t reveal. Because he doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know how one speaks about death” (167)]. The stranger does not know how to say what is locked inside of him because he is a stranger to himself. However,

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the heterodiegetic narrator’s description of him allows this knowledge to be verbalized and known.

Substitutions in “Aurélia Paris”

“Aurélia Paris,” is the story of an old woman and a Jewish girl talking and comforting each other in a fortress as English planes pass overhead (one crashes nearby in the forest).

In order to more fully understand substitutions in the last text “Aurélia Paris,” it is important to know that three versions of “Aurélia Steiner” were previously published by

Marguerite Duras in Le navire night (1979). In the foreword, Duras distinguishes among the identical titles by referring to them as Aurélia Melbourne, Aurélia Vancouver, and Aurélia

Paris. In Green Eyes, Duras is asked, “Est-ce que c’est la même [Aurélia Steiner] de Paris, de

Melbourne et de Vancouver? Oui, c’est la même. En même temps. A tous les âges” (185) [“Is

[Aurélia Steiner] the same one in Paris, Melbourne, and Vancouver? Yes. She’s the same one.

At the same time. At every age.” (143)]. The narrative “Aurélia Steiner” (Paris) is similar, but not identical, to the “Aurélia Paris” published in La douleur. In particular, many of the erotic descriptions are cut out, rendering “Aurélia Paris” a more subtle text. Despite differences among the texts, they are unified by the same ending: “Je m’appelle Aurélia Steiner. [Je vis à

Melbourne] [J’habite Vancouver] [J’habite Paris] où mes parents sont professeurs. J’ai dix- huit ans. J’écris.” (Duras Douleur 218, Navire Night 135, 165-66, 200) [“My name is Aurélia

Steiner. I live in [Melbourne] [Vancouver] [Paris]. My parents are teachers there. I’m eighteen. I write” (183)]. In this ending, there is a translation—a physical moving of Aurélia

Steiner’s body—from one geographical location to another. In consequence, the various texts produced are all different versions of the same story; they are simply told from different vantage points. This is similar to the narrator’s translation of identity across genres in La Douleur, where she moves from autobiography, to auto-fiction, to fiction.

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In La Douleur’s “Aurélia Paris,” the old woman and Aurélia Steiner can be interpreted as a continuation of the narrator and Thérèse. The old woman is used to grapple with the death of the narrator experienced in “La Douleur,” while Aurélia is linked to the rebirth of subjectivity. The little girl expresses a wide range of emotions and reintroduces the first-person je [“I”] into the narrative. As such, she represents successful processing and integration of trauma and a reconstruction of self.

The major theme explored in “Aurélia Paris” is death. It is presented in the past, the present, and the future. For example, the butterfly is already dead when the story begins

(212), the English pilot dies during the story (215), and the woman foretells of their death if the Gestapo return (212). Death is portrayed in both individual and collective settings. For example, the English pilot is unique in his specificity, particularly since Duras wrote a short story about him in Ecrire (“La mort du jeune aviateur anglais”). At the same time, he can be interpreted as a “victim-type” who serves as a place holder for anyone (Laouani 56). The fly is also at once unique in its specificity and symbolic of victims of the Holocaust (215).

The old woman, in particular, is strongly associated with death. Duras writes: “Ce que sait la petite fille c’est que dès qu’elle entendra le mot polizeï derrière la porte la dame ouvrira et tuera tout, d’abord eux et puis ensuite, elles deux” (210) [“What the girls does know is that as soon as the lady hears the word polizei outside the door she’ll open it and kill everyone, first the others and then the two of them” (175)]. She also writes: “La dame demande : “Qu’est-ce qu’on va devenir ? On va mourir, dit l’enfant, tu vas nous tuer” (213)

[“The lady asks, ‘What’s going to become of us?’ ‘We’re going to die,’ says the child. ‘You’re going to kill us’” (177)]. This homicide-suicide is reminiscent of the death of the narrator in response to Robert L.’s return. In both cases, the women are in a perpetual state of waiting and foretell of their deaths triggered by a long-awaited return (the Gestapo first came and

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took away Aurélia Steiner’s parents). For this reason, the fictional old woman in “Aurélia

Paris” can be interpreted as working through the death of self experienced by the narrator in “La Douleur.” The important difference, however, is that Aurélia is present in this narrative to achieve equilibrium and give voice to the experience.

The old woman and Aurélia Steiner form a close-knit, interdependent dyad in which they soothe each other and help each other cope with events. For example, the woman feeds and washes Aurélia (210), watches over her life (211), and caresses her hair (212). On the other hand, Aurélia keeps the woman company while she waits for the Gestapo (210) and tells the woman where planes are located in order to reduce her anxiety (211, 213). This helps to resolve a major stressor in “La Douleur,” where the narrator was not able to handle the uncertainty of Robert L.’s location and status. Aurélia’s acute spatial awareness is relevant to the reconstruction of self, since identity formation requires the ability to situate oneself in time and space (Kelly 61). The strong emotional bond between the old woman and Aurélia (212, 216, 217) can be interpreted as a more connected and caring relationship within the self.

Importantly, Aurélia is able to experience and express a wider range of emotions than the old woman, particularly in relation to vulnerability and fear. For example, although

Aurélia deduces that the woman must be afraid (214), the old woman remains unaware of her emotions: “[L]a petite fille a caché sa tête dans ses mains, elle a peur. . . J’ai peur, dit la petite fille. La dame n’a pas entendu. . . J’ai peur, répète la petite fille” (214) [“The little girl has hidden her face in her hands, she’s frightened. . . ‘I’m frightened,’ says the little girl. The lady hasn’t heard. . . ‘I’m frightened,’ says the little girl again” (179)]. Thus, Aurélia is able to express emotions that remain outside the consciousness of both the old woman and the narrator in “La Douleur.”

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Everything about Aurélia Steiner is symbolic of coming into being and the rebirth of subjectivity. For example, before La Douleur, Duras had not published fiction since 1971; she rediscovered writing through the figure of Aurélia Steiner, who represented a new beginning for her (Hill 114). In “Aurélia Steiner” (Vancouver), the mother Aurélia Steiner dies in childbirth as the infant Aurélia Steiner comes into being (159). This dynamic demonstrates a transference of identity that parallels the death of the narrator’s self in “La

Douleur,” and the rebirth of subjectivity in “Aurélia Paris.” Moreover, Aurélia can be interpreted as subject because she is 18 years old at the end of the story, which corresponds to the age of civil majority in France since 1974. Finally, Aurélia shows self-awareness of her body and identity, as exhibited when she looks at herself in the mirror: “La petite fille se regarde dans la glace et se parle: Je suis juive, dit la petite fille, juif” (214) [“The little girl looks at herself in the glass and talks to herself. ‘I’m a Jewess,’ she says. ‘A Jew’” (178)]. What is more, Aurélia reintroduces the first-person je [“I”] into the narrative: “Je m’appelle

Aurélia Steiner. J’habite Paris où mes parents sont professeurs. J’ai dix-huit ans. J’écris”

(219) [“My name is Aurélia Steiner. I live in Paris. My parents are teachers there. I’m eighteen. I write.” (183)]. This appropriation of identity is similar to Duras’s declaration

“Thérèse, c’est moi” [“Thérèse is me” (115)] at the beginning of the auto-fictional texts.

Aurélia Steiner, the character-I, becomes the narrator-I, thereby fusing with Marguerite

Duras, who is the author-I. For this reason, the autobiographical, auto-fictional, and fictional texts can all be considered testimony, as together they chart the death and rebirth of

Duras’s subjectivity.

A cat plays a prominent role in “Aurélia Paris,” to the point where it can be considered a character on par with Aurélia and the old woman. It too takes on traits of some of the characters in the previous texts. For example, a focus is placed on the cat’s stomach,

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which is metonymic of Robert L. On the other hand, the cat points to Rabier because troubling and ambiguous scenes of desire occur between the girl and the cat. The fusion of the two men into one figure demonstrates progress related to the integration begun in

“Ortie Brisée.”Indeed, the cat most fully expresses the ambiguity and desire present in the narrator’s relationships with both men.

In “Aurélia Paris,” there is a focus on the cat’s stomach. Duras writes: “Aurélia met sa tête contre le ventre du chat. Le ventre est chaud, il contient le ronronnement du chat, vaste, un continent enfoui” (218) [Aurélia puts her head on the cat’s belly. The cat’s belly is warm, it holds the cat’s purring, a vast buried continent” (182)]. The cat’s stomach is amplified through the use of a metaphor, likening it to an entire continent. The focus on the cat’s stomach is even more apparent in “Aurélia Steiner” (Melbourne), where the cat’s hunger overtakes the entire narrative. Passages include: “il y a ce chat, maigre, blanc” (118) [“there is the cat, skinny, white” (my translation], “ce chat de lèpre et de faim” (122) [“this cat full of leprosy and hunger” (my translation)], “le chat devient fou de faim” (122) [“the cat becomes crazy with hunger” (my translation)], “ce chat maigre et fou” (130) [“this skinny and crazy cat” (my translation)], “le chat, il crie… la faim et le vent [le] dévorent dans le jardin noir”

(130-131) [“the cat, it cries. . . hunger and wind devour it in this dark garden” (my translation)], “dans le vent et la faim, il crie” (131) [“in the wind and the hunger, it cries”

(my translation)], and “Le chat ne crie plus. Il est mort. Le froid et la faim” (133) [“The cat no longer cries. It is dead. Of cold and hunger” (my translation)]. The importance given to the cat’s stomach is similar to the focus placed on Robert L.’s voracious hunger during his recovery. Textual evidence indicates that the narrator’s intended audience in “Aurélia

Steiner” (Melbourne) may be Robert L. because the narrator loves the awaited man (121),

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she does not know where he is (119), and she believes him to be held in a concentration camp in Poland (120).

The cat serves as an intermediary between the narrator and this man. Its thinness, immobility, and the fact that he dies in the narrative allow the narrator to emotionally connect with the man she is waiting for. She writes: “C’est par ce chat maigre et fou, maintenant mort, par ce jardin immobile autour de lui, que je vous atteins” (134-35) [“It is by the hungry and crazy cat, now dead, by this immobile garden surrounding him, that I reach you” (my translation)]. Furthermore, the narrator believes that the timeless quality of the cat’s hunger cries permit them to reach her beloved, allowing her to feel closer to him

(124-25). While these passages explicitly detailing the cat’s hunger and its role as intermediary are not part of La douleur, they can inform one’s reading of the figure of the cat and justify interpreting it as a substitute for Robert L.

At the same time, the cat can also be read as a substitute for Rabier. Traces of eroticism between Aurélia and the cat are found in “Aurélia Paris” and are much more explicit in “Aurélia Steiner” (Paris).The cat’s association with the Gestapo, its power over a fly, and its insistent, erotic behavior towards Aurélia all point to Rabier. In “Aurélia Paris,” the cat is associated with newspapers about the third Reich: “Sous la lampe, le chat. Autour de lui, pêle-mêle, il y a les journaux sur les dernières opérations de l’armée du Reich” (210)

[“Under the lamp is the cat. Scattered around it are the papers telling about the latest operations of the army of the Reich” (175)]. The cat’s proximity to the newspapers reporting on the Reich highlights its predatory qualities, which are further emphasized by the dead butterfly next to it, later identified as its prey (212). The cat’s absolute power is magnified in “Aurélia Steiner” (Paris), where the cat abuses its power over a fly. In a passage more than three pages long, the cat tortures the fly and observes its suffering with pleasure

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(184-186). Its gestures are magnified to the point of being excessive, much like Rabier who carries six revolvers at a time. In addition, Aurélia Steiner continually interjects that she is

Jewish, causing this interaction to take on symbolic significance in the context of the

Holocaust.

The cat’s abusive treatment of the fly is immediately followed by erotic interactions with Aurélia. While the fly is tortured to death, the girl tells the cat she would like to die, thereby exciting it. Duras writes:

Le chat se lèche la patte et se rassied face à l’enfant. Celle-ci avance la main vers le chat, le chat charge cette main, s’y frotte de tout son corps dans un mouvement d’implacable amour. L’enfant laisse sa main ouverte aux abords du corps du chat. –Des fois, je veux mourir, dit l’enfant. . . Le délire du chat ne connait plus de bornes. Il fonce sur l’enfant tête baissée et dans un mouvement presque brutal, sous l’effet de la voix douce de l’enfant qui dit vouloir mourir il se caresse le flanc sur sa poitrine. . . L’enfant prend le chat et le pose par terre. Elle dit : Laisse-moi. D’un bond le chat revient sur le bureau, toujours frémissant de désir. Laisse-moi, dit l’enfant. Elle a posé sa tête sur le bureau, elle n’a plus de visage. . . Le chat, de toute sa force, essaye de s’immiscer sous le visage de l’enfant, de s’introduire entre ses cheveux et son front. La voix sourde sous les cheveux : Laisse-moi, laisse-moi. Non, le chat ne veut pas laisser. (186-189)

The cat licks its paw and sits again facing the child. Her hand advances towards the cat, the cat charges this hand, rubs against it with all its body in a movement of implacable love. The child leaves her hand open to the approaches of the cat. “Sometimes, I want to die,” says the child. . . The excitation of the cat no longer has any limits. It charges the child, its head lowered and in an almost brutal movement, under the effect of the child’s soft voice that says she wants to die, the cat caresses its flank against her chest. . . . The child takes the cat and puts it on the ground. She says, “Leave me alone.” In a leap the cat is back on the desk, still trembling with desire. “Leave me,” says the child. She rests her head on the desk, she no longer has a face. . . The cat, with all its force, tries to meddle underneath the face of the child, to insert itself between her hair and her forehead. The dull voice under the hair: “Leave me alone, leave me alone.” No, the cat doesn’t want to let her be. (my translation)

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In this passage, a lexical field of violence is present due to words such as charger [“to charge”], presque brutal [“almost brutal”] and de toute sa force [“with all of its force”]. The interaction is sexualized through the use of vocabulary such as: frémissant de désir

[“trembling with desire”], lecher [“to lick”], poitrine [“chest”], and s’introduire [“to insert”].

These themes reappear throughout the narrative, and are also found in the following passage:

Déjà, aux vitres, le jour. Il pénètre dans le couloir de la guerre. Le chat se couche sur le dos, il ronronne du désir fou d’Aurélia. Son ventre fauve s’étale comme un lœss. Aurélia se couche contre le chat. Le chat lèche le front d’Aurélia. Son ronronnement remplit la tête d’Aurélia. Elle est comme morte Aurélia et le chat s’en amuse comme un instant avant de la mouche, une des premières de l’été. (198)

Already, in the windows, daylight. It penetrates in the hallway of the war. The cat lays on its back, it purrs with crazy desire for Aurélia. Its tawny belly stretches out like a loess. Aurélia lays against the cat. The cat licks Aurélia’s forehead. Its purring fills Aurélia’s head. It is like she is dead, Aurélia, and the cat amuses itself like a moment before the fly, one of the first of the summer. (my translation)

The cat dominates Aurélia just as it did with the fly, and her body becomes as if it were dead, like the corpse of the insect. This passage is sexualized in that the day “penetrates” the hallway, the cat desires Aurélia, it licks her, and the two are lying down together. Elsewhere,

Aurélia caresses the cat and it bites her gently: “Aurélia se met à caresser le chat, d’abord distraitement puis de plus en plus fort. Le chat guette la main d’Aurélia et la morde, mais sans faire aucun mal” (197) [“Aurélia began to caress the cat, first distractedly then harder and harder. The cat waits for Aurélia’s hand and bites it, but without doing any harm” (my translation)]. These passages provide evidence for the sexualized nature of the interactions between Aurélia Steiner and the cat. In La douleur, the most explicit sections of “Aurélia

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Steiner” (Paris) are cut from the text, but traces of eroticism nevertheless remain between

Aurélia and the cat.

If the sexualized interactions between Aurélia Steiner and the cat are brow-raising, they make more sense given the content of “Aurélia Steiner” (Vancouver). Here, the narrator has intercourse with a sailor, who takes the place of the long-awaited “vous” (157).

The man holds himself from entering her body immediately, much like the cat holds its paw back from killing the fly right away. The sailor is described like this : “Il se tient à l’entrée du corps d’Aurélia Steiner, reste là, toujours dans le soin extrême de mener le supplice jusqu’à son terme. Puis il entre dans le corps” (164) [“He holds himself at the entrance of Aurélia

Steiner’s body, stays there, always in the extreme care to give the torture its full term. Then he enters into the body” (my translation)]. Similarly, the cat is described like this: “La patte reste un moment, molle, douce, joueuse, le chat n’appuie pas” (184) [“The paw stays a moment, soft, gentle, playful, the cat doesn’t press down” (my translation)]. It appears as if the cat takes on the erotic qualities originally associated with the man.

The symbolic origin of the cat is apparent in “Le Navire Night,” where a woman and

J.M. discuss a man named “the Cat”:

--Vous disiez vous souvenir de l’homme qui hurlait à l’aube. --Oui. Il appelait. Il disait qu’il était le Chat. Je suis le Chat. Vous entendez? Le Chat appelle. . . Ici le Chat. . . --Il disait que le Chat cherchait quelqu’un. Que le Chat voulait jouir. Qu’il fallait lui répondre. --C’est un homme qui a répondu. La voix était très douce, tendre. Il a dit qu’il entendait le Chat. Qu’il lui répondait pour lui dire ça, qu’il l’entendait. --Il lui disait de venir. De jouir. Viens. Jouis. --Oui. (43-44)

--You were saying that you remember the man who as yelling at sunrise. --Yes. He was calling. He said that he was the Cat. I am the Cat. Do you hear? The Cat is calling. . . Here is the Cat. . .

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--He said that the Cat was looking for someone. That the Cat wanted to come. That it was necessary to respond to him. --It was a man who responded. The voice was very soft, tender. He said that he heard the Cat. That he was responding tell him that, that he heard him. --He told him to come. To come. Come. Come. --Yes. (my translation)

In this passage, a man who identifies himself as “the Cat” is heard by another man, and the two become fused together as one through sexual intercourse. This passage supports the interpretation that the figure of the cat in “Aurélia Paris” substitutes for two men—Robert

L. and Rabier—and that this relationship is rooted in desire.

Thus, in a fictional setting, Aurélia is able to satisfy displaced sexual desire. Desire for Robert L. can never be gratified because the man he once was is irrevocably gone. On the other hand, desire for Rabier would have to be so repressed that it could never be consciously articulated as such. These desires must undergo numerous transformations and displacements in order to become unrecognizable so that they can be gratified. The narrator’s desire for the return of Robert L.’s now unrecognizable body couples with the unrecognizable desire for Rabier’s body. These desires are both displaced and satisfied in the figure of the cat. As such, fiction provides a context in which the most illicit emotions can be experienced and processed.

Conclusion

This chapter has sought to demonstrate that the entirety of La douleur can be read as testimony. The autobiographical texts correspond to Felman and Laub’s conception of testimony because they are modes that permit access to the truth; the narrator explicitly takes responsibility for truth-telling; she conceptualizes of testimony as a form of action through which she reclaims the position of witness; and the intended audience allows the narrator to become more aware of her narrative. However La Douleur also challenges this

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model of testimony because Duras does not remain tied to factual representation. While autobiography is used to recount true events, autofiction and fiction allow Duras to construct meaning and experience otherwise inaccessible emotions. Moreover, multiple versions of the same narrative bear witness to the death and reconstruction of self.

In “La Douleur,” the narrator experiences a destruction of self. Numerous physical, mental, and emotional symptoms demonstrate an inability to cope with the long wait for news of Robert L. Despite her best efforts, the narrator exhibits unawareness of her internal states, a detachment from her body, and a death of her former self triggered by news of

Robert L. While painful, her inevitable self-destruction provides a sense of stability and an escape from overwhelming emotions. In consequence, the narrator is unable to maintain the first-person “I.” Having dissociated from her body, she uses the third-person “she” when narrating her death.

In order to compensate, the narrator of “La Douleur” and “Monsieur X., dit ici Pierre

Rabier” translates her identity in the third and fourth stories into the realm of auto-fiction where she takes the form of Thérèse. This semi-fictional character has a powerful and controlling voice and a powerfully sexual body that help to compensate for extreme helplessness. As such, Thérèse most closely approximates the narrator before she was destroyed. It appears that the ambiguous feelings of the autobiographical narrator for

Rabier are split into hatred for the informant and sexual desire for Ter. This disambiguation allows conflicting and illicit emotions to be processed and expressed in a safer literary domain associated with less risk.

A second translation then occurs, transposing Duras into the realm of fiction. In this literary space, characters most closely approximate her destroyed self. “Ortie Brisée” explores the extreme disconnection to self, others, and one’s surroundings that is provoked

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by dissociation. Marcel’s infant brother is suggestive of death through his sleeping body covered in flies. However, Marcel is able to express vulnerability and fear that are inaccessible to the narrator in the realm of autobiography. Similarly, the old woman in

“Aurélia Paris” is strongly associated with death since she will kill everyone if the Gestapo return; however, Aurélia is present to soothe her and help her cope. In addition, Aurélia is able to gratify unrecognized desire for Rabier and Robert L., providing a sense of closure to the work. Moreover, she is linked to the rebirth of subjectivity because she allows the first- person “I” to be reintroduced into the text. In this way, La Douleur comes full circle and testifies of both the death and reconstruction of identity.

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Chapter 4: Torture and Translation in Djamila Boupacha

Interest in torture committed during the Algerian War has increased dramatically over the last twenty years. One reason is that Danielle Djamila Amrane-Minne published Des femmes dans la guerre d’Algérie [Women in the Algerian War] in 1994. Based on interviews with women resistant members of the FLN, her book begins to fill the silence surrounding women’s roles in the Algerian War. Secondly, the trial of Maurice Papon in 1997-1998 increased the public’s interest in torture. Papon’s heavy hand as an administrator in Algeria was exposed, as well as his responsibility for the massacre in Paris on October 17, 1961.1

Another major event occurred when the French government officially recognized the

Algerian War in October 1999. Naming the war was symbolic because it allowed events

(such as torture) to be more fully addressed. In 2000, Louisette Ighilahriz published

Algérienne in collaboration with Anne Nivat, a French journalist. Ighilahriz specifically implicated General Massu—the man in charge of maintaining order in the capital of

Algiers—as being present in the room while she was tortured. Massu responded on June 22,

2000, stating: “La torture n'est pas indispensable en temps de guerre, on pourrait très bien s'en passer. Quand je repense à l'Algérie, cela me désole, car cela faisait partie, je vous le répète, d'une certaine ambiance. On aurait pu faire les choses différemment” (Massu in

Beaugé) [“Torture is not indispensable in time of war, we could very well have done without it. When I think back on Algeria, it saddens me, because it was part of, I repeat, a certain atmosphere. We could have done things differently” (my translation)]. This public

1 More than 14,000 pro-Algerians were arrested in two days (Brunet 195). Low estimates of those killed range from 30-50 (Brunet 196) while high estimates consider the number to be more around 200 (Einaudi 11). 93 admission was a major turning point in the French public’s discussion of torture because it was no longer possible to pretend that torture was necessary in order to obtain accurate information or that torture was only committed by a few officers acting outside of orders.

Finally, certain archives opened in 1992, followed by others in 2012 to mark the fifty-year anniversary of the Algerian War. These events allowed a large amount of documentation to become available to researchers and have shed new light on the torture committed during the Algerian War.

Djamila Boupacha (1962) is a text written by Simone de Beauvoir and Gisèle Halimi in the context of the Algerian War. Their goal was to incite public outrage over the torture of

Djamila Boupacha, an Algerian resistant member of the FLN (le Front de Libération

Nationale), and to alert the public of the widespread corruption in the French judicial system in Algeria. Halimi is a Tunisian-born French lawyer of Muslim and Jewish heritage.

She represented Boupacha in court—both as a defendant accused of placing a bomb in the

Brasserie des Facultés and as the plaintiff accusing French military officers of having tortured her. Beauvoir served as the president of the “Djamila Boupacha Committee” in

France and attempted to raise awareness and support for Boupacha through a newspaper article published in Le Monde on June 2, 1960.

Although Halimi wrote virtually the entirety of the text Djamila Boupacha, Beauvoir wrote the preface and assumed the role of first author due to legal restrictions on what

Halimi could say about an open court case. The reader seldom has direct access to

Boupacha’s testimony, but her voice is heard through the inclusion of primary documents.2

In addition, Boupacha is often heard indirectly through Halimi’s summaries of their

2 Primary documents include Halimi’s authorization to travel to Algeria (17), handwritten letters from Boupacha (71-73, 107-110), the original complaint filed by Boupacha (217-19), Beauvoir’s newspaper article (220-223), medical reports (140-142), and correspondence between the supreme commander of the French army in Algeria and the French judge, M. Chausserie-Laprée (194-97). 94 conversations based off of her notes. Boupacha’s body is seen in photographs as well as indirectly through artwork of her done by Picasso, Matta, and Robert Lapoujade. My analysis will refer to the ensemble of the text, documents, photos, and artwork in order to show how Djamila Boupacha’s testimony acquires its meaning.

After giving a brief overview of torture in the Algerian War, I argue that Djamila

Boupacha fulfills all the criteria for testimony as defined by Shoshana Felman and Dori

Laub. However, the work also goes beyond this conception of testimony because

Boupacha’s testimony is re-voiced by Gisèle Halimi and Simone de Beauvoir, who become co-owners of her story. By bearing witness, these three women challenge a powerful discourse of shame. Originally, torture was used to shame Boupacha and destroy her sense of self. At certain moments in the narrative, Boupacha demonstrates an inability to maintain the first-person “je” [“I”] and relies on the collective “nous” [“we”] instead. Notwithstanding, through the construction of her testimony, Boupacha is able to renegotiate her identity and enlarge it enough to include even the unspeakable experiences of torture and rape. Her testimony is then translated onto the institutional level in France. Positioned as a competent and articulate plaintiff, Boupacha most closely resembles the self she was before her identity was destroyed. Halimi also re-voices Boupacha’s testimony in her position as lawyer and author. She redirects shame from her client onto the French military, judicial system, and medical profession. In doing so, Halimi questions the entire governmental system in France and challenges the state’s status as a democracy. A second translation occurs when Beauvoir re-voices Boupacha’s testimony in a newspaper article published in

Le Monde. In the court of public opinion, Boupacha is discussed as a victimized, infantilized girl in need of a (French) savior. Due to this colonial discourse, Boupacha is made to most closely resemble her destroyed self. Nevertheless, in this sphere, Boupacha is no longer

95 perceived as an individual but rather as a symbol of an emerging Algerian identity. As such, it was possible for Beauvoir to transfer shame from “Djamila” onto “Marianne,” the female body representative of French national identity. No one version of Boupacha’s testimony exists in isolation. Rather, the ways that Boupacha’s testimony is translated differently at the personal, institutional, and national level allow it to take on its full meaning.

Exposure of torture in Algeria

Djamila Boupacha was positioned on the literary market as a shocking revelation of torture committed during the Algerian War. The English version of this book is in fact entitled Djamila Boupacha: The Story of the Torture of a Young Algerian Girl Which Shocked

Liberal French Opinion (1962). Although emphasizing the shock value of Boupacha’s story was an excellent marketing strategy, it is not an accurate depiction of what was known in

France about the torture being committed in Algeria at the time. In reality, the French had practiced torture in Algeria since 1830 and Djamila Boupacha is part of a long tradition of texts documenting this phenomenon. What makes this work unique, however, is the interconnectedness of the three testimonies given.

The French government was aware of torture committed in Algeria as early as

March 1955. Roger Guillaume submitted a detailed report to Jacques Soustelle (the

Information Minister in Algeria at the time), in which he described the forms of torture used in Algeria, the people responsible for it, and the unreliability of this practice to obtain accurate information (Maran 46-50). Because the French government did not respond, it was considered to unofficially condone the use of torture in Algeria. The public was also made aware of torture during the Algerian War in 1957. Pierre-Henri Simon published

Contre la torture [Against Torture], in which he cites firsthand testimonies of torture committed on Christmas Day in 1955 (Obuchowski 98-99, Maran 148, Branche 392). Also in

96 1957, a large number of intellectuals denounced the use of torture by the French military when the Maurice Audin affair3 was published in newspapers (Obuchowski 94, Branche

388). One year later, Georges Arnaud (a French author) and Jacques Vergès (a French-

Algerian lawyer) published Pour Djamila Bouhired [For Djamila Bouhired] to alert the public of Bouhired’s torture and stop her execution.4 The extensive newspaper coverage of these highly politicized events made it impossible for the public to remain unaware of the torture taking place in Algeria.

When de Gaulle took power in 1958, he officially denounced the practice of torture.

As a result, it was possible to pretend that the French military no longer practiced torture in

Algeria, or alternately, that torture was only committed by officers acting outside of official orders. This shift was encouraged by authors such as François Mauriac, who avoided the subject of torture after de Gaulle’s return to power in order to show their political support

(Obuchowski 97). Notwithstanding, a newspaper article in Témoignage Chrétien [Christian

Testimony] in December 1959 exposed a center in Philippeville that systematically taught

French soldiers how to commit torture (Obuchowski 94, Manceron 180). Then, in 1961,

Louis Martin-Chauffier published Algérie An VII: L’examen des consciences [Algeria, Year VII:

The Examination of Consciences (my translation)]. As a survivor of the Holocaust and a member of an international commission against the existence of concentration camps,

Martin-Chauffier exposed the practice of torture in Algeria and argued that this practice increased levels of hate and violence among young Algerians.5 That same year, Henri Alleg

3 Maurice Audin was a French mathematics assistant at the University of Algiers. He was tortured and “disappeared” during the Battle of Algiers. 4 Djamila Bouhired was a FLN liaison agent who worked closely with Yacef Saadi, the commander of the FLN. She was accused of placing a bomb in a café. 5 Franz Fanon critiques Martin-Chauffier for his position that torture occurred in exceptional cases. (Fanon)

97 published La Question, in which he gave a detailed, first-person account of his torture by the

French military. Although his book was immediately censored in France, it was republished two weeks later in Switzerland and sold over 150,000 copies. This well-written, accessible account from a fellow French citizen galvanized public opinion. Alleg’s status as a French journalist gave his testimony increased credibility and importance in the eyes of the French public, and brought torture to the forefront of national discussions.

By 1962, revelations of torture had ceased to shock French public opinion, and an attitude of indifference had become pervasive. It is in this context that Djamila Boupacha was published one year later. The torture of Boupacha—a militant FLN agent accused of placing a bomb in a crowded café—may not have garnered as much attention if she had not been portrayed as a victimized and defenseless young girl. This allowed the French public to connect to Boupacha emotionally, and helped to increase levels of indignation concerning her rape. However, while the French public rallied to liberate a vulnerable, infantilized, and innocent Boupacha, it did not recognize that “saving” Boupacha was not what she wanted.

The reality is that Boupacha, a 22-year old woman, was ready to die for Algerian independence. Upon meeting Halimi, she declared: “Vous savez, je suis un agent du F.L.N. Et je mourrai pour l’indépendence de l’Algérie” (21) [“I’m an FLN agent, you know,’ she told me. ‘I shall die for Algerian independence’” (29)]. Moreover, Boupacha had placed a bomb in the Brasserie des Facultés to reach this end. In a 2013 interview with El Watan, an independent newspaper in Algeria, Boupacha states: “C’était en septembre 1960, j’avais choisi l’endroit le plus fréquenté—oeil pour oeil, dent pour dent” (Tahri) [“It was in

September 1960, I had chosen the most frequented place, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” (my translation)]. Although France was shocked by the torture of a supposedly docile

98 female victim, it had not yet grappled with the torture of a fiercely militant woman subject fighting for Algerian independence.

Justifications for torture

The principal justification given for the use of torture in the Algerian War was the necessity of procuring accurate information rapidly (Branche 384, Lazreg 253, Maran 3,

Rejali 481, DiMarco 69). Other justifications given were the necessity of identifying the adversary (Todorov 17), the violence of the adversary (Branche 389), and the guerilla warfare tactics used (DiMarco71). What these rationalizations fail to acknowledge, however, is that torture in Algeria dates back to 1830 (Vidal-Naquet 21) and can be considered a product of colonization. This is how Boupacha herself viewed torture, as demonstrated in a letter she wrote to the Djamila Boupacha Committee : “[T]outes les violences et tous les excès que nous avons subis, succédant à une longue période de colonisation et d’oppression. . . . il faudrait que [la guerre] se termine vite pour que nous puissions enfin nous débarrasser de ce poids de haine que nous oppresse ” (150) [“All the violence and all the excess that we have endured comes after a long period of colonization and oppression. . . the war must finish quickly so that we can finally get rid of this weight of hate that oppresses us” (my translation)]. The meaning that Boupacha attributes to her torture is that it is situated in the context of colonialism, and as such, part of a longstanding tradition of violence, hate, and excess. Indeed, torture has been documented in numerous

French colonial contexts. In 1947, the French army resorted to torture on a massive scale during the repression of a revolt in Madagascar (Branche 382, Vidal-Naquet 22) and torture was widely practiced during the war in Indochina (Manceron 176, Branche 381, Vidal-

Naquet 21). According to Peter Suedfeld, Ronald Crelinsten, and Raphaëlle Branche, torture’s ultimate goal is not to retrieve information, but to break a people’s will and

99 dehumanize them in the process (Suedfeld 1, Crelinsten 42, Branche 390-391). Torture was routinely practiced in Algeria as a means to establish France’s colonial dominance and keep

Algerians in subservient roles.

Torture is part of colonial discourse because dehumanization and the creation of an outsider group are two prerequisites for torture to exist in a society (Kelman 32, Staub 52,

53, 62, 65). Dehumanization is demonstrated by the French police’s strong disdain for the

Algerian people (Branche 384, Manceron 187) and through the use of beating as a means of conquest (Branche 381). According to Branche, the French police believed that Algerians did not understand anything except physical force (381). This attitude denies the intelligence and humanity of Algerians, and reduces them to brute, instinctual drives.

Torture is also part of colonial discourse because it is a “crime of obedience,” meaning that it occurs under the direction of authority, not despite it (Manceron 177, Kelman 23). The

French government authorized torture in three ways: it ceded power to the military in

Algeria (Lazreg 254), permitted the use of any means deemed necessary to pacify the resistance movement (Manceron 178), and did nothing in response to the Guillaume report6

(Maran 46-50). Torture was routinized in Algeria beginning in 1957 (Manceron 177, 179,

Maran 2, Branche 381); interrogation centers were installed in Algiers, Philippeville,

Hussein Dey, El Biar, and elsewhere. Although these centers were shielded from the French public they were made abundantly evident to Algerians in order to increase terror

(Manceron 178). French military detachments also methodically used torture to destroy the

OPA (Organisation Politico-Administrative), a clandestine structure of the FLN based in rural parts of Algeria. Thus, torture was used on a systematic level to maintain French rule in

Algeria.

6 See page 96 100 The methods of torture used to break militants who resisted France’s presence in

Algeria included beatings (fists, clubs, whips), water torture (bathtub, hose), electrocution, hanging (“helicopter”) and rape (Branche 383, 389, Rejali 164, 481). Of these methods, electricity was by far the most employed in Algeria (Branche 389). These methods were developed to produce the maximum amount of pain without leaving permanent traces, making it possible to commit ever-increasing acts of violence, all the while denying that torture was ever conducted in Algeria. Bodies that bore permanent traces of torture were disposed of, or alternately, were labeled suspects who were killed while fleeing the police

(245). As Branche argues, the term “suspect” as defined by French law was highly problematic because it could be applied to virtually any Algerian in any context (386).

Without checks in place to limit violence or power, the French police was able to act with impunity. The range of victims, motivations for torture, and intensity of violence used all increased as time went on (Lazreg 253, Rejali 163, Todorov 18, Manceron 178, DiMarco 72).

Despite the numerous justifications given for torture in Algeria, scholars have cited the humiliation of France—linked to its collaboration during World War II and its loss of

Indochina—as the real reason for the sudden, pressing need for victory in Algeria (Lazreg

254, Todorov 18, DiMarco 71). This urgency created an environment where victory at any cost was justified, including the ever-increasing use of torture. Paradoxically then, it was the widespread use of torture that caused France to lose its hold in Algeria (DiMarco 64, 70).

The French defined victory solely in military terms, but did not take into consideration political factors. While the French military pacified Algeria from a military point of view, it also alienated virtually the entire Algerian population in the process (73-75). The FLN’s propaganda citing the French army’s torture was highly effective in Algeria and abroad

101 (74), as it weakened international political support for the French and prepared the terrain for Algeria’s independence (67).

Testimony

Djamila Boupacha fulfills the criteria for testimony as defined by Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub. It is a mode that allows access to truth (Testimony 18, Claims 296), Boupacha takes responsibility for telling the truth (Claims 295), and she conceptualizes of testimony as a form of action through which she reclaims the role of witness (Testimony 85). In addition, Gisèle Halimi is important to the existence of the narrative because she allows

Boupacha to become more aware of her own testimony (Laub 71). However, Djamila

Boupacha also goes beyond this conception of testimony because Boupacha’s testimony is re-voiced by two women—Gisèle Halimi and Simone de Beauvoir—who become co-owners of her story. This transmission challenges Felman’s argument that testimony comes from an

“utterly unique and irreplaceable topographical position with respect to an occurrence”

(Claims 297). Indeed, the ways in which Boupacha’s testimony is transformed as it is transposed into different spheres allows it to acquire its full meaning.

Djamila Boupacha can be considered a mode through which gains access to truth. As a lawyer, Halimi scrupulously investigated the evidence presented and recounts court proceedings in detail. In addition, primary documents are interspersed throughout the narrative to allow the reader direct access to key evidence. Furthermore, Halimi describes this judge as rigorously investigating the truth of Boupacha’s case: “[I]l avait une enquête à mener à bien, des crimes à élucider, des responsables à identifier: en strict technicien de la vérité, il irait jusqu’au bout” (160-61) [“He was a professional truth-seeker of the strictest sort, and would follow his quarry through to the end, come what might” (143)]. Boupacha’s testimony is corroborated by numerous witnesses including her cellmate, other detainees,

102 and her family and is also supported by medical reports. Thus, Djamila Boupacha can be considered a mode that allows access to truth.

Boupacha takes on responsibility for telling the truth by indicating when she does not remember something. Halimi writes: “Quand certains détails s’estompaient, elle

[Boupacha] le disait. Elle répétait [au juge]: ‘Je ne veux pas mentir. . . C’est peut-être lui. . . ou c’est peut-être avant le coup de pied. . . Je ne sais plus si c’est à mon premier séjour à El Biar ou à mon deuxième, au retour d’Hussein Dey’” (166) [“When certain details slipped her memory, she said so. She kept on saying [to the judge] things like: ‘I don’t want to get it wrong’, or ‘It may have been him’, or ‘That might have happened before I was kicked’, or ‘I can’t be sure now whether that was during my first period at El Biar or when I went back there after Hussein Dey’” (148)]. In doing so, Boupacha increases her credibility because she shows scrupulous attention to telling the truth about the smallest of details. Consequently, when such qualifications are not present, the reader is likely to assume that Boupacha is accurately recounting events as they occurred. What is more, the judge tested Boupacha’s reaction to equipment used in torture. Her involuntary physical response demonstrates a truth-telling that goes beyond language: “[Le juge] était satisfait. Il avait voulu sonder la sincérité de Djamila, allant plus loin que par de simples questions. Les réactions de Djamila devant la dynamo étaient édifiantes” (167) [[The judge] had got what he wanted. His purpose had been to test Djamila’s sincerity, in a way that went far beyond an ordinary series of questions. Djamila’s reactions when confronted with the little dynamo had been most instructive” (149)]. For these reasons, Boupacha can be considered to take on responsibility for telling the truth.

Boupacha’s testimony can be interpreted as a form of action through which she claims the position of witness. Despite the warnings given by the police to confirm the

103 written confession and not to mention the torture that she endured (39), Boupacha spoke out in court: “Les policiers sont toujours là. Tant pis, tant pis. Elle veut le dire. Elle crie presque: ‘Oui. Inscrivez que j’ai été torture à Hussein Dey, que j’ai souffert. . . oui, que j’ai souffert beaucoup’” (39) [“The police were still there, but to hell with it: she had to speak out. In a voice that was almost a shout she cried: ‘Yes. Write that I was tortured at Hussein

Dey, that I suffered the most horrible indignities” (44)]. Boupacha’s statement was an active form of resistance against the silencing tactics of the police. Particularly because it was made while she was on the witness stand, it can be considered a form of action through which she claims the position of witness.

As the first recipient of Boupacha’s story, Gisèle Halimi greatly contributes to

Boupacha’s ability to testify. Because Halimi is an empathetic listener capable of bearing the emotional weight of her client’s story, Boupacha’s testimony is encouraged to emerge (Laub

68-69). For example, Halimi says in a private conversation, “Djamila, raconte, tu peux tout me dire; tu sais bien que je suis ici pour toi” (22) [“‘Tell me, Djamila. You can tell me everything. You know I’m here to help you’” (29)]. Halimi’s non-judgmental, close listening is essential to counteracting the numerous forces that conspired to shame Boupacha into silence. As a listener, Halimi becomes a co-witness to the trauma, all the while remaining distinctly different from Boupacha. She does not appropriate Boupacha’s experience as her own, but actively shares in the story-telling experience. The two women’s closeness is most closely expressed when Boupacha refers to Halimi as her sister, since this relationship evokes mutual understanding, sharing, and feminine support. It is important that Halimi shares in Boupacha’s experience to counteract the extreme isolation that Boupacha experienced while she was tortured.

104 In the testifying process, Boupacha transmits her story to Halimi—literally translating it outside herself—in order to take it back again in a more integrated, less problematic way (69). This is demonstrated in the following passage, where Halimi describes her transcription of Boupacha’s story: “Djamila était délivrée: elle avait enfin parlé, son clavaire était là, devant elle, sur cette feuille blanche que je remplissais. Il n’était plus seulement ce qui la rongeait seule, de l’intérieur” (22) [“Djamila had got it out at last.

She had spoken, the weight was lifted from her shoulders, her Gethsemane was there before her, on my rapidly filling page of notes. She no longer had to sit alone with this fearful knowledge, while it ate away at her internally” (29)]. Halimi’s note-taking transforms

Boupacha’s story from an internal, unspeakable experience into one that is verbalized and physically recorded on paper. The concretization of her testimony makes Boupacha’s story less nebulous and anxiety-provoking, and it becomes less essential to hold on to every detail of the experience so as never to forget. The transcription of Boupacha’s story onto paper creates a memorial, so that Boupacha as a survivor does not have to be an ever- remembering monument to her experiences.

Stakes of Boupacha’s testimony

Djamila Boupacha testified in court in two different capacities: in Algeria, she was the defendant accused of placing a bomb in the Brasserie des Facultés, while in France, she was the plaintiff who accused members of the French army of torturing her for thirty-three days in order to obtain a signed confession (38). This latter case took precedence over the former because if it could be proven that her confession was obtained by means of torture, it would become inadmissible in the court of law. The confession was a critical element in the case, because three eye-witnesses said that she was not the perpetrator (32) and no other evidence linked her to the crime.

105 At stake in accepting Boupacha’s signed confession is the accuracy of information given under torture. This relates to the primary justification given to defend the use of torture during the Algerian War (the necessity to obtain accurate information rapidly).

However, if Boupacha’s entire confession is examined, it becomes evident that not only did she confess to placing a bomb at the Brasserie des Facultés, she also confessed to bombings committed by other people and to bombings that never occurred (35). The selectivity required to construct Boupacha’s written confession calls into question the effectiveness of torture to produce accurate information and shows how flawed the justification for torture truly is.

As a plaintiff in France, Boupacha testified at length concerning the torture she endured at El Biar and Hussein Dey. One stake involved in Boupacha’s testimony was the revelation that torture in Algeria still occurred on a massive scale after de Gaulle took power in 1958. Indeed, Boupacha’s testimony goes beyond her own individual case to include the torture of her father, brother-in-law, and other detainees. At stake as well was the reputation and status of soldiers who were former resistance members during World

War II. Furthermore, Boupacha’s testimony risks unveiling that torture was not conducted by a handful of officers acting outside of orders, but that it was systematically taught, encouraged, and condoned from the top down. Because the army refused to identify officers who had had contact with Boupacha, it was no longer possible to pretend that torture was not condoned by the highest authorities of the French army. On a personal level, Boupacha’s testimony risked revealing that she had been raped and was no longer a virgin. This had serious consequences in the traditional Muslim society in which she lived, as Boupacha feared that no one would want to marry her. The personal stakes involved in Boupacha’s testimony are related to the erasure of language that occurs in torture. When testifying in

106 court, there is the risk of repeating this same dynamic in the court setting, leaving Boupacha with a powerless voice and an exposed body.

The destruction of self

During her torture, Boupacha experienced a destruction of her self. This is consistent with Elaine Scarry’s conceptualization of torture as the “systematic process of undoing” (20). Its aim is to destroy a victim’s body, voice, identity, and humanity. During torture, physical pain becomes a victim’s only certainty (4). Scarry contends that there is a direct correlation between pain and power, so that the pain of one person equals the power of the other (18, 37). As such, the torturer and the victim experience the situation oppositely: for the victim, bodily pain becomes everything and the questions become unimportant, while for the torturer, the interrogation becomes everything and physical pain becomes justified (29). For the victim, physical pain is intensified to the point that the exterior world is destroyed (38), as well as thought, emotion, language and basic acts of perception (4, 34, 54). Through torture, the entire world is reduced to the victim’s body, which is, in turn, reduced to unending pain.

While terrible in its own right, the physical pain provoked by torture must be understood in its psychological context. Language plays a fundamental role in torture because it mediates the victim’s understanding of—and relationship to—this violence.

Through the use of language, the meaning attributed to pain becomes just as devastating as the physical pain itself. For example, before an interrogation, the torturer increases fear and apprehension by describing in detail the instruments that will be used (16). Language is also used to establish absolute power over a victim. According to Scarry, the interrogator’s power comes from his or her ability to become a voice without a body, thereby becoming immune to physical pain. In contrast, the weakness of the victim is derived from his or her

107 status as a body without a voice (45). Pain actively destroys language (4) and brings the victim to a state anterior to language where only cries, screams, and moans are possible

(Scarry 4, 9, 54).7 Although the interrogator claims to torture in order to make a victim speak, the very practice of torture strips away language from a person. Justifications for torture hide the reality that its ultimate goal is not to retrieve accurate information, but to actively destroy language, self, and humanity.

Boupacha’s narrative indicates that her sense of self was destroyed during the torture she endured at El Biar and Hussein Dey, which included beatings, burns, electrocution, a version of waterboarding, and rape. These actions focused on pushing

Boupacha’s body past its physical limits, intruding into her intimate space, and destroying her identity as female, Muslim, Algerian, militant, daughter, and human. Boupacha’s identity as a female was attacked through the sexualized nature of torture: electrodes were placed on the most intimate parts of her body, including her breasts, genitals, and anus; cigarettes were snuffed out on Boupacha’s breasts and buttocks; and, she was raped. Boupacha’s identity as a Muslim was destroyed through the use of alcohol, which is forbidden by the

Koran. Beer was spewed onto Boupacha’s body in order to increase her conductivity for electrocution, and she was raped with a beer bottle. Boupacha’s body was turned against itself, as her interior became exterior: over the course of the month, she became caked with fecal matter, vomit, blood, and other bodily fluids. Moreover, items normally associated with hygiene, such as a bathtub and a toothbrush, became instruments of torture. Familial ties were called into question by attempting to pit Djamila Boupacha and Abdelaziz

Boupacha, her 70-year-old father, against each other. They were also forced to witness each

7 In extreme situations, the hippocampus and amygdala take the brunt of the experience in an attempt to save the rest of the brain. Intense fear and pain overwhelm the neural pathways to the language centers, causing them to shut down. This literally leaves a victim without language (Brewin 115-119). 108 other’s pitiful states after sessions of torture. Finally, degrading comments denied the humanity of Algerians, Muslims, and Arabs. Both physical violence and the meaning attached to it were used to destroy Boupacha’s sense of self.

Due to the systematic destruction of body, voice, and identity, Boupacha experienced herself as being outside of humanity during her torture. In a hand-written letter to the “Djamila Boupacha Committee,” she writes: “Pendant que je souffrais sous les coups de mes bourreaux, j’étais sûre que nous n’appartenions plus au genre humain” (72)

[“While I suffered under the blows of my torturers, I was sure that we no longer belonged to the human race” (my translation)]. This letter, reproduced in a scan, remains outside the realm of typed text. Unlike other key passages that are cited and incorporated into the narrative, the quotation—like Boupacha’s experience—remains fundamentally outside.

Boupacha situates both herself and her torturers outside the realm of human experience: while they became all-powerful and superhuman, she became powerless and sub-human.

The destruction of Boupacha’s identity can be seen textually through a shift from the first person “I” to the collective “we” when talking to Halimi. This suggests the use of a group identity to compensate for a destroyed individual identity. For example, rape was used to destroy the most important and cherished part of Boupacha’s identity—her virginity (51, 78, 79, 130, 141). In consequence, Boupacha experienced a deep sense of shame and shifts from “I” to “we” when speaking to Halimi about her rape: “Mes parents ne savent pas. Je veux dire, ils savent, mais ils ne savent pas tout… la bouteille, ils ne savent pas. Je ne leur ai rien dit. C’est trop grave pour nous” (24) [“My parents don’t know. I mean, they know, but they don’t know everything. Not about the bottle. I haven’t said anything about that to them. For people like us it’s such a dreadful thing” (31)]. The emphasis on

“nous” privileges group membership at the expense of acknowledging an important

109 individual experience. It appears that Boupacha is only able to remain part of the collective whole by eliding her rape. The unsayable quality of this event is seen in the ellipsis, her vagueness (“tout”), and the metonymic reference to the beer bottle, that stands in for the act of rape. Boupacha’s shift from “I” to “we” can be interpreted as an effective coping strategy, since by expanding her identity to include the collective, Boupacha challenges the idea that she is completely destroyed and alienated from her own. Moreover, situating herself within a collective framework allows Boupacha to draw on the strength and continued resistance of other FLN members. Indeed, Halimi states that during interviews with Boupacha, she exhibited abrupt alternations between alienation from her story and extreme enthusiasm for the FLN (15). This evidence supports the argument that Boupacha relied on a collective identity to compensate for a loss of individual identity. The unspeakable quality of rape in the collective domain can also be interpreted as a defense mechanism, since it allows

Boupacha to avoid naming or fully processing what happened. Focusing intensely on the collective goal of Algerian independence would detract attention from her individual experience of rape, since militant women in the FLN were desexualized in order to share close quarters with men. By emphasizing her membership in the resistance movement,

Boupacha could place increased importance on a role where sexuality was minimized, which may have helped her to cope with the shame-filled experience of rape.8

Shaming

Boupacha’s torture and rape are associated with shame due to the secrecy, silencing, and judgment attached to these events (Brown Shame 47). Secrecy is evident because torture centers were shielded from the view of Europeans, and official documents were altered in an attempt to hide how long Boupacha was truly detained (23). What is more, the

8 As bomb carriers, however, Algerian women were sexualized and Westernized in order to pass through French military blockades (Marx-Scouras 260). 110 French army protected the identities of military officers operating at the centers by refusing to provide headshots of the officers who came in contact with Boupacha. General Charles

Ailleret, the supreme commander in Algeria, stated, “Though the concealment of evidence defies the law, its release would harm the morale of those who served their country”

(Ailleret in Whitfield 14). The shocking position that Ailleret officially takes is that the soldiers’ morale takes precedence over the law, and that secrecy is justifiable in order to protect them.

Boupacha was also shamed through systematic silencing in court. During her first appearance in Algerian courts, she attempted to testify that she had been tortured—in her words, “je hurlai que j’avais été torture” (201) [“I shouted that I had been tortured” (177)].

However, her testimony was not recorded, and she was told to conclude. This silencing communicated to Boupacha that she was powerless, and that her voice would not be heard, no matter how loud she yelled.

Just as her voice was silenced, Boupacha’s body was erased in medical discourse.

Boupacha’s description of the first medical examination is as follows:

“Il [le médecin] me disait—à chaque fois que je lui racontais ce qu’on m’avait fait—‘Oh! C’est pas méchant, c’est pas méchant tout ça…’ Il m’a à peine regardée, deux minutes peut-être. Il m’a touché la côte, regardé mes doigts… Il faisait ‘C’est pas grave, c’est pas grave…’ Je ne me suis d’ailleurs même pas déshabillée!” (51-52)

“He [the doctor] said to me: ‘Oh, there’s no harm in that, no harm at all.’ He scarcely examined me at all—the whole thing was over in about two minutes, I should think. He felt my ribs and looked at my fingers, saying ‘Nothing serious here, nothing to worry about.’ I didn’t even undress!” (54)

By minimizing her torture, refusing to perform a gynecological exam, and only according her body a cursory glance at best, the court-appointed Algerian doctor shamed Boupacha.

111 Judgment is displayed through a colonial discourse that monopolizes the distribution of blame. According to this logic, if Boupacha had not placed a bomb, she would not have had to be arrested; if Boupacha had confessed, she would not have needed to be tortured; if Boupacha understood something other than violence, she would not have to be beaten; if Boupacha did not speak out, she would not need to be silenced. . . A powerful discourse of blame exists so that no matter what the truth may be, military, judicial, and colonial powers become absolved of responsibility for wrong-doing. For example, Maurice

Patin, the president of the Committee for Public Safety, stated, “Il y a des excès. . . quelques excès. . . il reste des jeunes. . . vous savez ce que c’est. . . des novices. . .” (102) [“There may have been excesses,’ he said. ‘A few excesses, that’s it. . . a lot of inexperienced youngsters. . . recruits, really, you know how it is” (96)] and “Il ne s’agit donc pas du véritable supplice. . . comme en Indochine, vous savez?” [We’re not concerned with real torture then—the kind of thing they used to do in IndoChina, you know” (97)]. These statements minimize the gravity and length of Boupacha’s torture, chalk committing torture up to inexperience of non- officers, create a hierarchy of suffering, and make an appeal for understanding and complicity. While Patin calls soldiers “très bien élévés” (102) [“gentlemen” (96)] Boupacha is described as “’vraiment pas sympathique. . . Elle veut l’indépendance de l’Algérie’” (106)

[“not a ‘nice’ girl at all. . . she wants independence for Algeria” (99)]. It is because Boupacha challenged colonial rule that she was made to assume the blame of the entire system and was judged accordingly. Due to the force of shame placed upon Boupacha through secrecy, silence, and judgment, it is exceptional that she still testified in court about her torture by the French military and police.

Negotiation of the unsayable

112 In her testimony, Boupacha exhibits a negotiation of the unspeakable experiences of her torture. This highlights the process through which her testimony is constructed, the meaning of events is established, and her identity is redefined. During this progression,

Boupacha exhibits a transitional identity that is neither the self before trauma, nor the survivor afterwards. Rather, it is an identity-in-formation marked by questioning, shifting positions, and uncertainty.

In the first recorded instance of testimony,9 Boupacha states: “Et puis, ils m’ont fait…

Je veux être examinée par un docteur…” (39) [“And then they—they—I want to have a medical examination” (44)]. The first ellipsis interrupts a complete sentence and demarcates the domain of the unsayable. However, Boupacha’s request for a medical examination invites the reader to fill in these gaps. It also positions Boupacha as a subject because it highlights her desire to be examined, not the acts committed against her will.

Furthermore, the request suggests that Boupacha’s body can testify even when she cannot do so verbally. The use of the past tense and the focus on the traces left behind situate torture in the past (as opposed to being an omnipresent threat, or a re-experiencing of torture in the present as a flashback). Temporally situating the torture is an important step in the construction of Boupacha’s relationship to events, particularly since the French police attempted to cover up these events by altering her arrest date (23). Finally, the indirect nature of Boupacha’s request for medical attention may have helped her to mediate the extreme difficulty of putting these experiences into words.

Boupacha exhibits a progression in her negotiation around the unsayable during her talks with Halimi. In the following quotation, she is able to verbalize her inability to say what happened: “J’étais nue, ils crachaient la bière qu’ils buvaient. . . Les fils électriques, ils

9 In the chronological order of historical events, not in the order of the narrative 113 les collaient. . . Vous savez comment? Avec des bandes, des bandes de scotch. . . sur les bouts de mes seins. . . sur. . . oh, je ne peux pas vous dire. . . Partout, vous comprenez ?”

(21) [“They had me stripped naked, and they spat the beer they were drinking at me. They took the electric terminals, and they fastened them—you know how? With pieces of Scotch tape—they fastened them over my nipples and on—on—oh God, I can’t bear to tell you— everywhere, do you understand?” (28)]. The unsayable is indicated by six ellipses, as well as the phrase “oh, je ne peux pas vous dire” [“Oh, I can’t bear to tell you.”] Notwithstanding,

Boupacha tries to fill these holes through questions such as “Vous savez comment?” [“You know how?”] and “vous comprenez?” [“do you understand?”]. These inquiries demonstrate

Boupacha’s desire for Halimi to continue to understand even when words fail her.

Boupacha’s negotiation around the unsayable continues to progress throughout her testimony. In the following citation, Boupacha no longer questions if Halimi understands, but instead states that she does know: “Oui. . . Mais c’est une chose terrible. La bouteille, ils l’ont enfoncé. . . Tu sais, j’ai écrit au commissaire du Gouvernement pour être examinée par un docteur” (22) [“Yes. . . But it’s something really frightful. They—they pushed a bottle into my—I’ve written to the Public Prosecutor, you know, asking for a medical examination”

(29)] Paradoxically, although Boupacha affirms that Halimi knows, she introduces previously unknown information. This tension highlights the struggle between knowing and not knowing that is projected onto Halimi but that Boupacha herself is grappling with. The phrase “Tu sais” [“You know”] is couched between the unsayable (as evidenced by the ellipsis) and a request to be examined by a doctor (an allusion to her torture). This tension demonstrates the construction of an emergent knowing. Like her testimony, which is pieced together little by little, Boupacha’s understanding of events develops over time.

114 In Boupacha’s testimony, there is a critical point at which knowing and not knowing are equally represented. For example, the dual existence of the visible and invisible is exhibited in the following passage: “Tu vois, poursuivait Djamila en me prenant la main et en me faisant tâter ses côtes. . . Sous une blouse, comme aujourd’hui, ça ne se voit pas. . . ”

(23) [“‘See for yourself,’ Djamila went on. She took my hand and made me feel her ribs.

‘Under a blouse, like the one I’m wearing today, you can’t see anything’” (30)]. Here, seeing is associated with knowing, whereas invisibility is linked to unawareness. As in previous instances, several ellipses are present. However, in this particular passage, one ellipse is linked to the exploration of knowing (feeling Boupacha’s side), while the other is associated with unknowing. As a listener, it is equally important that Halimi understand and not understand what Boupacha has expressed. At this moment of equilibrium, Halimi comes closest to fully experiencing the trauma herself. In doing so, she teaches Boupacha how to appropriate her own story. Halimi’s understanding allows Boupacha to process what she already knows at some level, whereas Halimi’s inability to understand fully teaches

Boupacha how to face the incomprehensibility of her experiences. At this critical point, when knowing and unknowing equal each other, Boupacha is freed to reconstruct her identity. While knowing is linked to a nascent understanding of the facts of her history, unknowing gives her the liberty to attribute meaning and importance to events.

Negotiation of identity

In the space situated between knowing and unknowing, Boupacha exhibits a renegotiation of identity. She says to Halimi : “Je ne sais plus si je suis jeune fille… Tu comprends ? Je m’étais évanouie, et j’ai eu du sang, quand ils m’ont redescendue dans la cellule. . . . Qu’est-ce que tu crois, toi ? Que je ne suis plus jeune fille ? Dis-moi franchement. .

. Qu’est-ce que tu penses?” (24) [“‘I no longer know whether I’m a virgin in any sense,’ she

115 said. ‘Do you understand? I passed out, and then when they got me back to my cell I was bleeding. . . ‘What do you think? That I’m no longer a virgin? Tell me frankly—what’s your opinion?’” (31)]. Boupacha questions whether she would still be considered a virgin and gives several reasons why the answer might be “no.” Her repeated questioning suggests a need for another woman to give an opinion on the matter. Boupacha is not creating meaning alone; rather, she is operating within the framework of society. It is difficult to gauge the importance of such a monumental event immediately afterwards because it is so outside the realm of typical experience. As such, other people’s feedback and reactions serve as references that allow Boupacha to reconstruct a sense of perspective. This is seen in another instance, where Boupacha gives possible reasons to support the opposite stance:

“Est-ce que tu crois que je suis encore vierge ? Puisque je n’ai pas connu d’homme, peut-être que la bouteille ne m’a pas abîmé partout” (51 author’s emphasis) [“‘Do you think I’m still a virgin? I haven’t been raped by a man, after all. Maybe that bottle didn’t really count’” (54)].

Boupacha exhibits a desire to negotiate a middle ground, while at the same time grappling with rigid all-or-nothing extremes (complete purity or absolute ruin) and with the religious demands of a traditional Muslim society. Another example of this negotiation of identity occurs when Boupacha says: “Et tu crois qu’un homme voudra de moi si la bouteille m’a abîmée ? Chez nous c’est différent de chez vous… La jeune fille, il faut qu’elle soit vierge…”

(78) [“Do you think any man would want me after I’ve been ruined by that bottle? Our customs are very different from yours. A young bride must be a virgin—” (75)]. Rigidity is expressed by the phrase “il faut que” [“must”] while at the same time, the possibility of a middle ground is explored (a man may still be interested in marrying her). These passages demonstrate the existence of a transitional identity that is neither the self before torture nor the survivor afterwards. Rather, it is a middle ground where Boupacha attempts to

116 recreate her identity through negotiations of meaning during conversations with Halimi. In consequence, Boupacha is able to relocate herself in relation to society.

A period of silence is a crucial element in Boupacha’s recreation of identity. For example, Halimi describes Boupacha’s behavior in Algerian court after experiencing discrimination within the judicial system: “[Boupacha] était décidée à ne pas se laisser juger dans ces conditions. . . Elle ne répondrait à aucune question. Même pas à l’interrogatoire d’identité. Elle resterait muette” (85) [She had made up her mind not to acknowledge the

Court’s competence while such conditions prevailed. . . she would refuse to answer any questions, even as to her identity. She would remain mute” (81)] and “Djamila, interrogée, ne transgressa la règle du silence qu’elle s’était fixée que pour affirmer ‘qu’elle ne parlerait qu’en présence de son avocat, Me Halimi’” (94) [“When Djamila was questioned she only broke her self-imposed rule of silence once, to declare that she ‘would not speak except in the presence of her counsel, Maître Halimi’” (88)]. In both instances, the word

“interrogation” is used. Although in this context, it refers to a courtroom interrogation, the word also resonates with the questioning Boupacha endured during torture. The critical difference, however, is that Boupacha refuses to speak and Halimi is there to bear witness to this resistance. Boupacha’s silence demonstrates agency, and is different from the silence of the unsayable. Furthermore, Halimi interprets and verbalizes this silence as a form resistance. Although Halimi glosses over Boupacha’s refusal to answer questions about her identity (through the use of a sentence fragment and “même pas”), it is extremely important that Boupacha refuses to answer this particular kind of question. A suspension of language gives Boupacha the space necessary to enlarge her identity so that it can include all aspects of her history, including her torture and rape. In other words, Boupacha’s deliberate refusal to define herself gives her the opportunity to reimagine her identity as a survivor.

117 Boupacha’s transition towards a new conception of identity is exhibited in the testimony she gave in France. When asked by the judge if she had any declarations to make,

Boupacha’s response demonstrates that her loss of virginity has been processed and integrated into a coherent narrative:

“J’estime que de l’ensemble des parties non contradictoires de ces différents rapports résulte la réalité d’un certain nombre de points : . . . 3) défloration traumatique qui est affirmée par le rapport dont vous m’avez donné lecture et en particulier par les conclusions gynécologiques de ce rapport qui est à mon avis l’élément le plus important de cette nouvelle expertise.” (156-157)

“I submit that the common elements of these various reports, when taken together, confirm the truth of a number of points. . . . Thirdly, traumatic defloration, supported by the report you have just read me, and in particular by the gynecological findings it contains. In my opinion these findings constitute the most important new element of this fresh expert testimony.” (140)

Here, Boupacha analytically considers the evidence before her and then deliberately chooses her position. Importantly, the various medical reports create a reality that she chooses to accept. Reality is not portrayed as existing objectively, but as having been manufactured through a preponderance of evidence. This highlights the process through which Boupacha’s testimony is constructed over time, as well as the development of her relationship to—and understanding of—the torture and rape she endured. Concerning

Boupacha’s psychological examination by Dr. Michel-Wolfrom, Halimi writes: “Interrogée sur le sens et la valeur de la virginité, Djamila est absolue : c’est un totem, une magie ” (141)

[“To questions about the meaning and value of virginity Djamila gave absolute and uncompromising answers : virginity for her was a totemic symbol, with positively magical significance” (126)]. Boupacha’s response shows a clearly established position, as opposed to the uncertainty previously exhibited through her questioning. Boupacha has assigned a

118 stable meaning to virginity that reflects the intellectual, emotional, and spiritual values she attributes to this concept.

Gisèle Halimi’s testimony

Boupacha’s testimony is translated from the individual sphere to the institutional level through the figure of Gisèle Halimi. Halimi re-voices Boupacha’s testimony in Djamila

Boupacha, coloring it with her own subjectivities, but also testifies in her own capacity as a

French-Tunisian and Jewish defense lawyer. In the court setting, Halimi transfers shame from her client onto the French judicial system, challenging its validity due to the egregious problems brought to light during the course of her client’s trial.

When Halimi re-voices Boupacha’s testimony in Djamila Boupacha, she acts as an intermediary who contextualizes, filters, and colors everything that is reported. For example, she directs the reader’s impressions through her choice of modifiers, as seen in passages such as: “Faisant le gros dos, plus félin qu’à l’ordinaire, M. Patin feuilletait des papiers” (106) [“M. Patin arched himself self-importantly—he looked more like a big cat than ever—and began rifling his papers” (99)]. The subjectivity of Halimi’s perceptions and descriptions is also evident in citations such as: “M. Patin. . . parut moins assuré dans son jeu” (104) [“M. Patin seemed to lose something of his original self-assurance” (97)] and “Le

Conseiller fit encore signe de la tête qu’il approuvait totalement son Président” (105) [“Once again M. le Conseiller nodded to indicate his complete agreement with the President’s views” (99)]. As these passages demonstrate, the reader is most often presented with

Halimi’s (biased) version of Boupacha’s testimony. As a defense lawyer, Halimi’s clear objective is to protect her client and convincingly argue that she is innocent. As such, descriptions of Boupacha are flattering and feminized to increase her emotional appeal. For example, there is an attempt to soften Boupacha’s image: “en caressant les merveilleux

119 cheveux de Djamila” (186) [“caressing Djamila’s beautiful hair” (165)]. Furthermore, pictures are shown of Boupacha with children (capitalizing on her maternal and care-giving qualities), in prison (highlighting her disarmed and unthreatening nature), in a hospital bed

(portraying her in a weakened state), with her mother and sister (emphasizing familial ties), and kissing her father on the cheek (demonstrating her affectionate nature). Like

Halimi’s testimony, these pictures may be truthful, but they are not objective nor are they representative of the entire range of Boupacha’s identity or actions. Rather, descriptions and pictures are carefully chosen to highlight particularly non-threatening elements of

Boupacha’s life. Attention is concentrated on Boupacha as a person in order to elicit empathy and increase support for Boupacha’s cause. Nevertheless, this is done at the cost of eliding Boupacha’s identity as a militant member of the FLN.

Although Halimi re-voices Boupacha’s testimony, she also bears witness in her own right. From her unique position as a Tunisian-French and Jewish defense lawyer and author,

Halimi testifies of the process through which Boupacha bore witness in court. Specifically,

Halimi’s testimony concerns the statements and actions of doctors, judges, and lawyers involved in the case. Halimi goes beyond the personal domain and emphasizes the implications of Boupacha’s case at the institutional level. Attention is no longer focused on whether Boupacha planted a bomb, but on how the French military, judicial system, and medical field acted since Boupacha’s arrest. Halimi’s testimony in Djamila Boupacha is an attempt to hold these institutions accountable to the general public. The stakes involved in her testimony are the credibility of each institution, as well as the authority of the French government. Fundamentally, Halimi’s testimony calls into question France’s status as a democracy and its right to be in Algeria.

120 Halimi’s testimony concerning the French military attempts to show that

Boupacha’s case is not an isolated incident of torture, but rather one case among many.

Once again, she shifts attention away from Boupacha’s particular case and focuses on the systematic problem of an institution. For example, she wrote to Malraux (a French governmental official who claimed that torture was no longer practiced in Algeria): “Ces faits sont d’une exceptionnelle gravité. Loin d’être isolés, ils sont la preuve de la pratique systématique des tortures préalables à toute information judiciaire. . . . Plus que jamais l’armée torture en Algérie” (61) [“‘This is a matter of the utmost gravity. Far from being an isolated incident, it offers proof that torture is systematically employed as a preliminary to any judicial investigation. . . Torture is more widely employed by Army units in Algeria than ever before’” (63)]. Halimi’s point is that the French army’s consistent practice of torture calls into question the validity of all information obtained and used in court proceedings.

Where Halimi’s testimony differs from Boupacha’s is that in her role as a lawyer, Halimi has access to letters written to the judge by officials in the French army. Halimi convincingly shows that torture was condoned from the top down, and that it was impossible to pretend that the highest officials in power did not protect officers who committed torture. For example, in Djamila Boupacha, she reproduces a letter written by General Ailleret in response to the judge’s request for photos of French military or police who may have come in contact with Boupacha:

J’ai estimé en effet que la demande de leur photographie à tous les militaires et policiers ayant pu approcher à Djamila Boupacha, était susceptible de provoquer des répercussions fâcheuses sur leur état d’esprit et sur le moral des Corps et Services dont ils font partie. J’ai exposé mon sentiment au ministre des Armées qui a bien voulu me faire connaître . . . qu’il partageait entièrement ma manière de voir tendant à s’en tirer, en cette affaire, aux procédés habituels d’auditions et si nécessaire de confrontations. Signé : Ailleret. (195)

121 I have come to the conclusion that asking all the military and police personnel who may have dealt with Djamila Boupacha’s case to supply photographs of themselves would in all likelihood have an extremely bad effect upon their personal morale and that of the corps and Service to which they belong. I have expressed my views in this matter to the Minister of War, who has since let e know… that he is in complete agreement with them, and feels that the present case should be dealt with exclusively though the normal channels—ie by examination of witnesses and, if necessary, their confrontation by the accused. Signed Ailleret. (173)

The commanding officer of the forces in Algeria blatantly disregards the law in order to cater to his troops’ moral. What is more, the minister of the army supports his decision.

Given this information, Halimi argues that it is impossible to pretend that torture was not condoned by the very highest of authority or that it was not practiced with impunity.

Halimi’s testimony also exposes the abuses present in the French legal system in

Algeria. For example, she reveals that all the information for Boupacha’s case was gathered in a single day (43) and shows how official documents were doctored (23). She enumerates the ways in which Boupacha was not presumed innocent until proven guilty (66) and decries the predetermined nature of Boupacha’s trial (92). Halimi also documents that she was not allowed to see the evidence against Boupacha beforehand (16, 18), and explains the tactics used to ensure that no lawyer was present to defend Boupacha in court (75, 85, 91).

Furthermore, Halimi calls attention to the overlap between military and judicial power in

Algeria (89), criticizes the tactics used in an attempt to keep Boupacha’s case from being tried in metropolitan France (123), and makes known the refusal of Algerian courts to comply with demands made by a higher court in France (176-177). In light of these egregious abuses, Halimi challenged the legitimacy of the legal court system in France.10

10 According to Surkis, Halimi “argued in and with French law,” but she did not renounce its jurisdiction entirely, as Jacques Vergès did in the trial of Djamila Bouhired (Surkis 19). While this 122 Halimi’s testimony in Djamila Boupacha also attempts to hold the medical profession accountable for its actions. In particular, she shows that political and ideological differences influence medical discourse on both sides. In total, nine medical doctors testified of their findings based on medical examinations. Their role was to examine the physical marks left on her body to determine if they were consistent with Boupacha’s testimony. One factor involved in the doctors’ testimony is that the timing of the examinations largely determined how much evidence remained visible. This is problematic because torture was practiced in Algeria so as not to leave any permanent traces (Branche 389), and survivors were often detained until the evidence had faded. Moreover, the French doctor’s examination of Boupacha occurred in September (137), a full six months after the original torture in March. This delay was exacerbated by the French custom of taking the month of

August off for vacation. Also at stake in the doctor’s testimony is the supremacy of French medical doctors over their Algerian counterparts. Although the Algerian doctors’ examinations and testimonies occurred closer to the events, they were seen as incomplete and biased due to ties with the courts and military powers in place (115). Indeed,

Boupacha’s description of the first medical examination exposes a complete lack of objectivity and a perfunctory investigation (115). However, the French doctors’ reports cannot be said to be objective either. Halimi shows that, like their Algerian counterparts, the

French doctors are influenced by the context in which they are situated. She contends that their report is biased by Boupacha’s political discourse, French public opinion, and the consequences feared if a full disclosure was made (139). Halimi calls into question the truth of medical discourse, since doctors were used for ideological purposes on both sides. For example, in Algeria, the prosecutor attempted to discredit Boupacha’s testimony by view may be supported by Halimi’s stance in court, it does not correspond entirely to statements Halimi makes in Djamila Boupacha. 123 subjecting her to a psychological examination. If Boupacha was determined to be insane, she would receive leniency concerning the charges against her, but her testimony of torture would also be definitively discredited (112). On the other hand, in France, Dr. Hélène

Michel-Wolfrom’s psychological evaluation stated that Djamila Boupacha was incapable of pretending or lying (138). This counter evidence swings to the opposite extreme, as there is a difference between someone telling the truth and someone being incapable of lying.

Michel-Wolfrom’s medical evaluation takes an absolute stance that risks being discounted.

It portrays Boupacha’ truthfulness in terms of deficiency, and is problematic because

Boupacha confessed to a crime that she later maintains she did not commit (at least until

2013). Thus, Halimi’s testimony in Djamila Boupacha reveals the political and ideological influences on medical discourse in describing the physical and psychological effects of torture on Boupacha.

Simone de Beauvoir’s testimony

In a second, more radical translation, Boupacha’s story is translated into the international sphere. Simone de Beauvoir’s re-voicing of Boupacha’s testimony reveals that the French public was much more concerned with its loss of national pride than it was with

Boupacha’s well-being as a person. Boupacha is continuously infantilized, victimized, and portrayed as defenseless in French public discourse. As such, she is placed in a subordinate role that most closely mirrors the loss of subjectivity that she originally endured during torture. Nevertheless, the transformation of Boupacha’s identity into a national symbol allows Beauvoir to challenge colonial discourse by transferring shame from “Djamila,” who had become representative of an emerging Algerian identity, onto “Marianne,” the longstanding symbolic female figure of France.

124 Just as Halimi played an important role in facilitating Boupacha’s testimony, Simone de Beauvoir helped to ensure that Halimi’s testimony was heard. Although legal restrictions limited what Halimi could say about an open court case, Beauvoir wrote the preface of

Djamila Boupacha and took on the role as the first author so that the book could be published. Similar to the link formed between Halimi and Boupacha in Algeria, a strong connection was established between Halimi and Beauvoir. Halimi writes about her interactions with Beauvoir: “Je tremble presque de sentir cette communion entre nous deux, femmes, presque parfaite” (313) [“I almost tremble to feel this well-nigh perfect communion between the two of us (293)]. This fluidity between the two women and the stories they shared made Beauvoir an integral part of a triangle of women bearing witness to Boupacha’s torture. While Halimi bears witness to the reception of Boupacha’s testimony in the court of law, Beauvoir testifies of its reception in the “court of public opinion.”

As president of the “Djamila Boupacha Committee,” Beauvoir re-voiced Boupacha’s testimony in a newspaper article that appeared in Le Monde in June 2, 1960. Beauvoir capitalized on her fame and status as a French intellectual to draw attention to Boupacha’s story. In consequence, the public did not so much read Boupacha’s own story as read

Beauvoir’s telling of Boupacha’s story. Indeed, what appears to have outraged Le Monde’s readership was not so much the act of torture committed against Boupacha, but the explicit nature of the details given by Beauvoir in the newspaper. For example, one reader condemned the “ensemble of details, so horrible. . . that one would believe them to be taken from the works of the Marquis de Sade” while another attacked the supposedly “sadistic pleasure in laying out such extreme details” (Surkis 44). Here, opposition is voiced against de Beauvoir’s exposure of the crime, not against the crime itself.

125 In addition to re-voicing Boupacha’s testimony, Beauvoir also testifies in her own right. From her unique position as a French intellectual, Beauvoir bears witness to the stance of the French public in regards to the practice of torture in Algeria. In particular, she decries the public’s indifference and complacency. Beauvoir attempts to rouse the public out of its stupor when she states: “Quand les dirigeants d’un pays acceptent que des crimes se commettent en son nom, tous les citoyens appartiennent à une nation criminelle” (223)

[“When the government of a country allows crimes to be committed in its name, every citizen thereby becomes a member of a collectively criminal nation” (197)]. Beauvoir’s point is that because the French people elected the officials who condoned the practice of torture, they all shared in the responsibility for the implementation of torture in Algeria during the war.

In Beauvoir’s article, shame is once again linked to the unveiling of Boupacha’s body.

However, in this context, Boupacha is no longer considered an individual. Instead, she becomes interchangeable with any number of other Algerians, and is portrayed as symbolic of Algerian identity: “Dans le monde entire, ce nom était connu. . . Djamila était devenue un symbole” (100) [“She had become a household word all round the globe. . . she assumed symbolic status” (94)]. Moreover, Beauvoir refers to “des milliers de Djamila” (12)

[“thousands of Djamilas” (21)]. Although this perspective has been criticized (I will address this shortly), it also achieves an important goal. The transformation of Boupacha into a national symbol allows the shame associated with her torture and rape to be transferred onto another female body symbolic of national identity: that of Marianne. In doing so,

Beauvoir shifts the shame from Algerians as a colonized people to the French as a colonizing people. Beauvoir makes it clear that it is not shameful to have been tortured and raped; it is shameful to be the citizen of a nation that tortures and rapes. Thus, while Halimi focuses on

126 the implications of Boupacha’s case at the institutional level, Beauvoir concentrates on the consequences of the case at a national level.

Without negating the positive role Beauvoir had in advancing Boupacha’s cause, her political activism is not without problems. Halimi’s initial appreciation for Beauvoir’s support turned into a deep sense of disappointment. In particular, she was unhappy that

Beauvoir was not interested in Boupacha as a person, and that she refused to meet the FLN agent numerous times (Caputi 120). In her memoir, Halimi writes, “J’attendais une sœur de combat, je découvrais de plus en plus une entomologiste” (314) [“I expected a sister-in- arms, I discovered more and more an entomologist” (294)]. The word “entomologist” is revealing because it indicates the emotional detachment of a scientist who examines an insect. It suggests that Beauvoir objectified Boupacha and viewed her as an impersonal case that could potentially advance a particular cause. Indeed, Halimi’s description of Beauvoir continues like this: “[J]e découvrais. . . son refus de toute approche sensible du problème.

Elle considérait Djamila comme une victime parmi des milliers, un ‘cas’ utile pour mener la bataille contre la torture et la guerre” (317) [“I discovered. . . her rejection of any emotional approach to the problem. For her, Djamila was one victim among thousands a useful ‘case’ in the battle against torture and the war” (297)]. Once again, Boupacha’s subjectivity is overlooked (she remains a victim) and she is considered as a case-study, not as a person.

This is consistent with Beauvoir’s overall stance during the Algerian War (Surkis 40).

Judith Surkis also calls into question Beauvoir’s motives for publicizing Boupacha’s story. Surkis points out that Boupacha’s case occurred at a moment when French intellectuals’ influence on society was declining (43). It could be argued that Beauvoir capitalized on Boupacha’s testimony to reposition herself in a more advantageous way, since championing a cause was an excellent way to stay in the public spotlight.

127 Furthermore, Jean-Paul Sartre had supported Henri Alleg’s cause just one year before.

Beauvoir’s backing of Boupacha could be interpreted—at least in part—as a way to remain on par with her long-time companion, all the while distinguishing herself from him through her support of a feminine cause (46). This critique of Beauvoir focuses on her alleged ego- centric approach in regards to Boupacha.

Franz Fanon’s comments in “L’Algérie face aux tortionnaires français,” a newspaper article published in El Moudjahid in September 1957, are still relevant in relation to

Beauvoir some three years later:

[I]l faut savoir que seules les conséquences morales de ces crimes sur l’âme des Français intéressent ces humanistes. La gravité de tortures et des “corvées de bois,” l’horreur des viols de fillettes algériennes, sont perçues parce que leur existence menace une certaine idée de l’honneur français. (Fanon)

One must know that only the moral consequences of these crimes on French souls interest these humanists. The seriousness of torture and of the corvées de bois, the horror of Algerian girls being raped, are only perceived because their existence challenges a certain idea of French honor. (my translation)

Indeed, a recurring theme in reaction to Boupacha’s case was the loss of French national pride. Nevertheless, Beauvoir’s testimony is important because it allows this dynamic to become visible. For example, in response to her article, Dalsace discusses a loss of honor for the medical profession (246), Fonlupt-Esperaber references a loss of esteem for the nation

(255), Françoise Mallet-Joris calls into question the status of France as “mère des Arts, des

Armes, et des Lois” (257) [“mother of Arts, of Arms and of Laws” (227)], and Daniel Mayer reflects on the humiliation of France as a civilization (263). This fixation with national prestige demonstrates how little public discourse actually focused on Boupacha as a person, and how much of it was centered around French patriotism and the damage this case did to national pride. While not condoning this perspective, Beauvoir’s testimony is important

128 because it records this aspect of the French public’s reception of Boupacha’s testimony of torture.

Beauvoir’s testimony also allows us to see another recurring theme in public discourse—notably, that Boupacha is continuously referred to as a young girl. In letters of support written in reaction to Beauvoir’s article, Mallet-Joris, Daniel Mayer, and Françoise

Sagan refer to Boupacha as a “jeune fille” [“young girl”] a total of six times. Daniel Mayer also adds the qualifier “sans défense” (262) [“defenseless” (231)], Jean-François Revel calls her a “victime” (272) [“victim” (240)], Françoise Sagan refers to Boupacha as “une fille vierge sur une bouteille” (278) [“impale[d]. . . young girl who is a virgin” (246)], and an unnamed professor calls her “pauvre and chère Djamila” (67) [“this poor unhappy girl”

(68)]. In these ways, Boupacha is infantilized, victimized, and portrayed as defenseless. An attempt is made to fit her into the mold of a “perfect” victim—one that reinforces colonial discourses that would portray her as a nice but helpless native in need of a (French) savior.

As such, Boupacha becomes more emotionally appealing to the French public. However, this portrayal of her is not accurate. After meeting with her, Maurice Patin remarked to Halimi:

“Elle n’est vraiment pas sympathique cette jeune fille…” (106) [“She’s not really a pleasant character” (99)]. Moreover, Patin stated in L’Express, “Boupacha was not a ‘nice’ girl at all. . .

She wants independence for Algeria” (Whitfield 10). According to the logic of this discourse,

“nice” is equivalent to “submissive.” The French responses to Beauvoir’s testimony demonstrate a patronizing, colonialist discourse that does not take into consideration

Boupacha’s status as a woman, but instead relegates her to perpetual girlhood.11

Conclusion

11 See Marx-Scouras for a discussion on how Algerian women militants were treated as minors incapable of action (259).

129 Djamila Boupacha is one of many texts that document the practice of torture in

Algeria. What is unique about this work, however, is the presence of three intertwined testimonies that complement one another. Djamila Boupacha gives firsthand testimony of the torture she endured and bears witness to the torture of her father and brother-in-law.

As such, her testimony is situated at the individual level. Gisèle Halimi re-voices her testimony as the author of Djamila Boupacha and bears witness to the reception of

Boupacha’s testimony in court. In her role as Boupacha’s defense lawyer, Halimi translates

Boupacha’s case at the institutional level in order to redirect shame onto the French military, judicial system, and medical field. Beauvoir re-voices Boupacha’s testimony in her article printed in Le Monde and bears witness to the French public’s reception of it. In this manner, Beauvoir translates Boupacha’s case at the national level, redirecting shame from the Algerian people (as colonized) to the French people (as colonizing). Together, the three women challenge a powerful colonial discourse that justified the use of torture in Algeria and their interconnected testimonies trace Boupacha’s story from the individual sphere to the international level. Ultimately, they succeed in transferring shame from “Djamila” to

“Marianne.” However, France was not able to process this shame, and underwent a period of silence about the Algerian War that lasted from 1962 until the 1990’s. It is only relatively recently that France has begun to undertake the important work of acknowledgement and remembrance. Due to the increased presence of torture in national discussions over the past twenty years, it appears that France as a nation has begun to process this guilt.

Nevertheless, with the opening of certain archives on the French military in 1992 and others in 2012, the real work has just begun.

130

Chapter 5: Translation and Recursion in Le passé devant soi by Gilbert Gatore

The literary works that have received the most scholarly attention thus far concerning the 1994 genocide of the Tutsis in Rwanda were written as part of the

Fest’Afrique project “Ecrire par devoir de memoire” [“Writing out of Duty to Remember”].

This initiative was funded by the French Ministry of Culture in 2000 and includes contributions by a wide range of Francophone African authors including Boubacar Boris

Diop (Senegal), Monique Ilboudo (Burkina Faso), Koulsy Lamko (Tchad), Tierno

Monénembo (Guinea), and Véronique Tadjo (Ivory Coast). The writers resided in Rwanda for three months and were each commissioned to commemorate the genocide through literature (Applegate 77). As such, these authors are considered to be “outsider witnesses,” meaning that they wrote about real events that they did not experience firsthand (Fonkoua

67 in Applegate 78). The works generated through the Fest’Afrique project are valuable due to their high literary quality as well as the geographical, cultural, and temporal proximity of the authors to the genocide. Geographical and cultural proximity is created through the

African origins of the authors and their period of residency in Rwanda; temporal proximity to the genocide is undoubtedly the most important consideration, however, as these literary works predate the vast majority of testimonies, fiction, and critical texts written by

Rwandans themselves.1 While the Fest’Afrique works merit scholarly attention, they have

1 The following works, however, were published before the iniative “Ecrire par devoir de mémoire”: Yolande Mukagasana’s La mort ne veut pas de moi (1999) and N’aie pas peur de savoir (1999), Benjamin Sehene’s Le piège ethnique (1999), André Sibomana’s Gardons espoir pour le Rwanda: Entretiens avec Laure Guilbert et Herve Deguine (1997), Aimable Twagilimana’s Hutu and Tutsi (1997) and Manifold Annihilation: A Novel (1997), and Josias Semujanga’s Recits fondateurs du drame rwandais : Discours social, ideologies et stereotypes (1998). 131 also come to overshadow the fiction written by Rwandans survivors of the genocide. For this reason, my chapter concentrates on a less well-known text—Le passé devant soi (2008) by Rwandan author Gilbert Gatore. This text is one of the very first Francophone novels to be published by a Rwandan who survived the 1994 genocide in Rwanda (Hitchcott 78,

Applegate 70).2 Because Gatore’s fiction draws upon his personal experience—as opposed to interviews with survivors—it is perceived to be less mediated and therefore more authentic than those texts written by outsider witnesses. This increases the value of his novel because it ostensibly allows the reader to come closer to discovering truth(s) about the genocide.

Even in the realm of fiction, novels that address the genocide in Rwanda are assessed by their representation of truth. This safeguard stems from a fear of revisionary accounts that attempt to portray the massacre of the Tutsis in Rwanda as something other than genocide. Given the amount of time that it took for the international community to acknowledge the genocide in Rwanda, coupled with the confusion caused by the media’s portrayal of events (Hutu perpetrators leaving Rwanda for fear of reprisal were conflated with Tutsi survivors fleeing the massacres), this concern is both valid and important.

Consequently, most post-genocide texts are characterized by first-person narrators, an emphasis on historical facts (dates, place names, real events), and clear pedagogical or political objectives (Applegate 77, 84). Le passé devant soi diverges significantly from this tradition because it is written in the third person, it does not have a clear pedagogical objective, and historical events must be inferred. In this unique work, Gatore exercises

2 Fictional works by Rwandan authors include: Maurice Niwese’s Celui qui sut vaincre (2003), Anicet Karege’s Sous le déluge rwandais (2005), Benjamin Sehene’s Le feu sous la soutane (2005), Jean-Marie Vianney Rurangwa’s Au sortir de l’enfer (2007), Aimé Yann Mbabazi’s Sheridan (2007), and Joseph Ndwaniye’s La promesse faite à ma sœur (2007). However, not all of them were living in Rwanda in 1994. 132 artistic license to explore the traces that the genocide has left on his imagination (Gatore in

Schontjes 297).

Le passé devant soi is a complex, non-linear work told through a series of narrative fragments. It is at once the story of Isaro, a survivor who attempts to grapple with the massacre of her family during the genocide in Rwanda, and the story of Niko, a perpetrator who struggles with guilt after having participated in the mass killings. Importantly, however, Niko does not exist on the same level of the narrative as Isaro. Instead, he is a fictional character in a novel that Isaro writes in order to better understand her past and leave it behind. Thus, recursion is a key element in the novel’s structure: Gilbert Gatore’s fictional novel is the character Isaro’s reality; Isaro’s fictional text is the character Niko’s reality; and, Niko escapes this reality by living in his imagination. At this point, the narrative operates at the level of the imagination of the imagination of the imagination of Gatore.

Here, Niko experiences visions and dreams in which he is no longer in control of the narration (for example, he is knocked unconscious). It appears that the text takes control and writes itself independently of a narrator, thereby allowing the most unimaginable elements of the genocide to be expressed.

In this chapter, after giving an overview of the controversies surrounding Le passé devant soi, I argue that Gatore’s novel can be read as a limit-case of testimony. Although it is a fictional work, it bears witness to the effects of the genocide on the author’s imagination.

One such effect is that Gatore is unable to write about himself in the first-person because of the alienation experienced towards his childhood self. In an attempt to work through this fragmentation, Gatore translates his identity across a series of fictional selves—each of whom exists in the imagination of the previous one—in order to outrun psychological defense mechanisms and allow the unspeakable and unknowable elements of the genocide

133 to be expressed at the deepest level of the imagination. The unsayable is expressed when

Isaro translates her identity onto her character Niko. Although Isaro is unable to access her own emotions about the genocide, she can verbalize what Niko is thinking and feeling. In turn, Niko translates his identity onto two animals that are slaughtered in order to represent the unknowable. Notwithstanding, none of the characters are able to come to terms with the trauma of the genocide—in particular, that for all these characters, love has become inextricably tied to killing.

Criticisms and controversies

Gatore’s unique novel has garnered some praise—such as the Prix Ouest-

France/Etonnants Voyageurs [“Prize West-France/Astonishing Voyagers” (my translation)]—as well as several scathing critiques. Criticism of the novel revolves around its lack of documentary realism, the portrayal of victims and perpetrators, and the role of

Gatore’s father during the genocide.

Some critics of Le passé devant soi are concerned by the lack of documentary realism and the omission of historical events from the novel (Applegate 76). Madeleine

Hron also critiques the work because it makes little reference to traditional Rwandan culture (Hron 172). These concerns are related to the fear of revisionary accounts of history and to reader expectations based on the characteristics of other works about the genocide.

While understandable, these critiques have limited merit concerning Gatore’s work.

Although historical events are never explicitly stated in the novel, they can be located in the narrative and inferred through the details given (for example, the assassination of President

Juvénal Habyarimana or the advancement of the Rwandan Patriotic Front). Secondly, Gatore is against revisionist versions of the genocide, as seen in his comments during a roundtable

134 discussion with Pierre Schoentjes. When Gatore was asked why he never finished reading

Une saison de machettes by Jean Hatzfeld, he responded:

[I]l faut savoir qu’aujourd’hui encore au sujet du Rwanda il y a des gens pour nier le génocide, qui l’interprètent d’une manière plus ou moins atténuée, euphémismée. Dans certains de ces témoignages [des bourreaux] on sent poindre, s’ils ne sont pas carrément dits, ce genre d’insinuations et d’arguments. C’est gênant et de manière spontanée je n’ai pas envie de l’entendre. (Gatore in Schoentjes 297)

You have to know that even today concerning Rwanda, there are people who deny the genocide, who interpret it in a more or less attenuated way, euphemistically. In some of these testimonies [of killers], you feel incubating, if it is not clearly stated, these kinds of insinuations or arguments. It is uncomfortable and spontaneously, I did not want to hear it. (my translation)

Because it does not appear that Gatore is attempting to revise history—either in his novel or in his discourse about the genocide—those who critique the novel for not being historical or cultural enough take a didactic stance that attempts to regulate what a post-genocide

Rwandan work “should” say. It is not up to Western scholars to police the body of post- genocide texts written by Rwandans by imposing certain requirements. The danger of this approach is that it risks creating a standard cannon of post-genocide texts that conform to

Western expectations and desires, thereby stifling creativity and silencing divergent

Francophone voices that make unique literary contributions.

Le passé devant soi has also been strongly critiqued for its portrayal of victims and perpetrators. As Hitchcott notes, it is rare that a novel explores a killer’s motivations and guilt in such depth,3 and critics have been unnerved by the similarities portrayed between victims’ and killers’ suffering in the aftermath (Hitchcott 76). In particular, Charlotte

Lacoste and Catherine Coquio vehemently oppose the empathy generated for Niko,

3 Another example, however, is Tierno Monénembo’s L’aîné des orphelins 135 contending that the novel fails because it does not accurately represent victims or perpetrators (Coquio 258, Hitchcott 86, Lacoste 348-350, Applegate 76). These criticisms stem from a concern that actual perpetrators’ complete lack of remorse and abdication of responsibility will be rewritten through the figure of Niko. While noteworthy, these critiques are limited in value because do not take the recursive structure of the novel enough into account. Niko is, in fact, the fictional character in a novel ‘written’ by Isaro (a survivor). As such, portrayals of Niko are much more revealing about the imagination, mental processes, and working through of the genocide by a survivor than they are about the psychology of a killer. Empathy for Niko is evoked because he is the mirror image of

Isaro: he is at once completely opposite and completely identical to her. I agree with

Elizabeth Applegate’s assertion that Isaro and Niko are “symmetrical images” and “linked opposites” (75), and concur with her structural analysis of the text, which shows that words used to portray one character reappear a few pages later to describe the other (75).

However, I disagree with her conclusion that “Niko seems to represent what Isaro might have become” (74). Niko is not the future of Isaro, he is her past. This mute, denigrated outcast who is animalized, shamed, and neglected can be interpreted as none other than the abject self of the survivor. Niko’s label as a killer can be interpreted as a defense strategy to ensure that Isaro will not recognize him as herself, thereby successfully avoiding any kind of identification or reintegration between the two. Indeed, Niko embodies a wide range of psychological defense mechanisms, including: acting out (he re-enacts his death twice), fantasy (he prefers to live in his imagination), idealization (he venerates the monkey as his guardian angel), projection (he names animals after himself and projects his identity onto them), displacement (his uncle takes the place of his father), dissociation (he observes himself), isolation (he lives in a cave without any human contact), repression (he avoids all

136 words, thoughts, and emotions), and withdrawal (he retracts from himself and his body).

For this reason, Niko can be interpreted as the unintegrated self of a survivor who is unable to come to terms with the past. The empathy required to connect to a heinous creature like

Niko is the same depth of empathy necessary to connect to the monstrous self as internalized by the survivor. If this reading of the novel is correct, unlike Lacoste, I would classify Gatore’s description of the survivor as dangerously accurate and revealing.

At its core, much of the critique aimed at Le passé devant soi calls into question

Gatore’s status as a legitimate survivor due to allegations that his father was a perpetrator during the genocide. Critics such as Lacoste and Coquio question Gatore’s relationship to his father—and consequently, his stance on the genocide—because of his portrayal of Niko, the mirror relationship between Isaro and Niko, the dedication of the novel to his parents, and

Gatore’s article in “L’énigme” (Coquio 257, 262, Lacoste 348-350). Contrary to critics who read Niko as emblematic of Gatore’s father, it seems that the teacher Uwitonze most clearly mirrors Tegera’s role in the genocide. In a thinly veiled account, Niko recognizes Uwitonze’s responsibility in the massacres, acknowledges that his dignity has been lost forever, and admits that the fictional account given is an attenuated version of events (165-68).

Ultimately, however, what is at stake is not who represents Gatore’s father in the novel, but who can speak about the genocide and whose stories people are willing to listen to.

In his article, “L’énigme” (published in Vingt-et-un in October of 2008), Gatore attempts to establish his own innocence and his right to write about the genocide despite the allegations against his father. He writes about himself (in the third-person):

Le Rwanda et les massacres qui s'y sont déroulés étaient ce qui le touchait de plus près et il lui avait paru naturel de naître à l'écriture par ce sujet. Il croyait pouvoir en parler avec distance parce qu’il n’était qu’un enfant au moment des événements et que, jusqu’à-là, rien à sa connaissance ni dans sa mémoire ne lui indiquait que ses parents y aient participé. (Gatore 202)

137

Rwanda and the massacres that occurred there are what touched him most closely and it seemed natural to him to be born into writing by this subject. He believed that he could talk about it with distance because he was only a child at the moment of the events and that, until then, nothing to his knowledge nor in his memory indicated that his parents had participated in the genocide. (my translation)

Gatore positions himself as innocent in three ways: by calling the killings “massacres,” he implies that he is on the side of the victims; by referring to himself as a child (he was, in fact, an adolescent), he invokes the innocence of youth; and by maintaining that nothing ever indicated to him his father’s guilt (glossed over by invoking both his parents), he claims ignorance. If this statement is to be taken at face value, Gatore did not know about the role his father played in the genocide when he wrote the novel. Coquio doubts this, stating : “On ne sait ce que l’enfant a vu des agissements de son père, mais ce qui se déroulait au Rwanda n’était pas de nature à pouvoir être dissimulé aux proches” (262) [“We cannot know what the child saw of his father’s actions, but what happened in Rwanda was not something that could be hidden from close friends or family” (my translation)]. However, Coquio remains in the domain of speculation and fails to provide supporting evidence for the numerous conjectures that she admittedly makes in her article: “on tombe ici dans la conjecture interpretative” (263) [“here, we are falling into interpretive conjecture” (my translation)] and “si la conjecture est requise” (263) [“if conjecture is required”]. These issues undermine her credibility and make it difficult to give full weight to her discourse.

It is, in fact, possible to determine what Gatore would most likely have known at the time he published Le passé devant soi based on court records, newspaper articles, and book publications. Given the timeline of events, Gatore was able to publically maintain his ignorance because much of the information readily available to the general public was published after his novel came out in January of 2008. Firsthand testimony against Tegera 138 was not published until December 17, 2008 in Le massacre des Bagogwe: Un prelude au genocide des Tutsi, Rwanda (1990-1993), and the lawsuit against Tegera by the Collectif des

Parties Civiles pour le Rwanda [Collective of Civil Parties for Rwanda] was only filed on July

5, 2009 (Pierre). Thus, Gatore was able to feign ignorance in his article “l’Enigme,” which was published in mid-October of 2008, some nine months after his book first came out. He describes learning about the accusations against his father like this (once again in the third person):

Un jour, un ami l'a alerté: il y avait un commentaire “bizarre” aux cotes d'un article de Telerama à propos de son livre. La note indiquait que le roman était peut -être remarquable, mais qu'il était impossible de le comprendre sans savoir que le père de l'auteur était soupçonné d'avoir participé au génocide. Peut-être aurait-il pu ne pas se sentir concerné? Peut-être aurait-il pu se raccrocher à l’idée que les enfants ne sont pas responsables de la conscience de leurs parents? Mais la charge s’installa…Et voilà que l‘intervention d'un internaute précipite cette bonne conscience dans l’obscurité. (Gatore “L’Enigme” 202)

One day, a friend alerted him: there was a “bizarre” comment next to the article on Telerama about his book. The comment indicated that the novel might be remarkable, but that it was impossible to understand without knowing that the author’s father was suspected of having participated in the genocide. Maybe he could have felt that it didn’t concern him? Maybe he could have held on to the idea that children are not responsible for their parents’ conscience? But the burden weighed. . . And that is how an Internet user’s comments threw this clear conscience into obscurity. (my translation)

Gatore frames himself in a positive light by invoking the presence of a friend (i.e. he is likeable), by calling his novel remarkable (i.e. he is talented), and by denoting the commentary as “bizarre” (quotations allow Gatore to avoid taking ownership of the word that nevertheless calls into question the reliability of the comment). Once the accusation is stated, Gatore’s then uses rhetorical questions, the conditional tense, and the word “peut-

être” to attenuate his nevertheless strong assertion that children are not responsible for the

139 sins of their parents. Generalization shifts attention away from any one case in particular

(i.e. his), and the word “enfants” [“children”] once again associates Gatore with the innocence of a child. Moreover, Gatore claims to take on responsibility (“la charge s’installa”

[“the burden weighed”]), all the while maintaining that he is not obligated to do so (“mais”

[“but”]). In particular, Gatore’s discourse is problematic because it identifies the internet user’s comments as the source of his trouble, and not the actions of his father that the comments refer to. This strategy shifts blame from his father onto the anonymous internet user and allows Gatore to avoid denouncing his father directly. Secondly, it is dishonest for

Gatore to claim that he first learned about the accusations against his father through an internet user’s comments in 2008. Based on information from his father’s refugee hearings,

Gatore most likely knew about the accusations as early as 2001, when his father was denied refugee status in France.

Tegera was denied refugee status in France a total of three times: in 2001, in 2006, and in 2008. On March 6, 2001, the director of the Office Français de Protection des Réfugiés et Apatrides [French Office of Refugees and Stateless People (my translation)] refused

Tegera refugee status because his name is cited in a 1993 report by the Féderation

Internationale des Ligues de l’Homme [International Federation of the Leagues of Man] as having participated in the massacres in Kabilira (Rwanda Violations 20) and because

Tegera’s name was included in the lists of suspected perpetrators of genocide that were generated by the Front Patriotique Rwandais [Rwandan Patriotic Front] in 1994, 1996, and

1999 (Kagatama). This ruling was overturned in 2003 due to the lack of eyewitnesses who could testify against him (Gabriol 4). In response to Tegera’s newly acquired refugee status, the International Federation for Human Rights published an article in which it manifested its strong displeasure:

140 La FIDH, la LDH, la Cimade et Survie sont stupéfaits par la reconnaissance de la qualité de réfugié, le 7 janvier 2003 par la Commission des Recours des Réfugiés pour une personne de nationalité rwandaise qui avait fait l'objet d'une décision d'exclusion par l'OFPRA. Cette décision était fondée sur l'article 1.f.a qui exclut de la protection garantie par la Convention de Genève "les personnes dont on aura des raisons sérieuses de penser qu'elles ont commis un crime contre la paix, un crime de guerre ou un crime contre l'humanité. (Rwandais)

The FIDH, the LDH, the Climade et Survie are stupefied by the status of refugee granted to a Rwandan who was excluded by OFPRA’s decision. This decision was based on the Article 1.f.a that excludes the protection guaranteed by the Geneva Convention to ‘any person with respect to whom there are serious reasons for considering that. . . he has committed a crime against peace, a war crime, or a crime against humanity.’” (my translation, citation from Handbook 16)

Although Tegera’s name is never cited, the date given corresponds to his refugee hearing

(Gabriol 3). What is more, the Integrated Regional Information Networks published a similar article—albeit in English—in which Tegera is identified by name (“Rwanda Rights”).

These articles do not constitute extensive media coverage; however, they show that the international community was aware of the outstanding accusations against Gatore’s father.

In 2006, Tegera’s status was denied once again, when the ruling granting him refugee status was overturned in a higher court (Gabriol 1-4). Ultimately, this decision was upheld by the

Court National du Droit d’Asile on September 23, 2008 (Decision N° 376874, M. Pierre

TEGERA). In sum, because his father was denied refugee status on three separate occasions, because enough credible evidence was presented during the refugee hearings to seriously call into question Tegera’s role in the genocide, and because there was media coverage of these events, it is highly unlikely that Gatore was unaware of the accusations made against his father when he published Le passé devant soi and his article “L’Enigme” in 2008.

Tegera is wanted for genocide, complicity in genocide, conspiracy to commit genocide, murder, extermination, formation, membership, leadership and participation in 141 an association of a criminal gang, whose purpose and existence is to do harm to people or their property (Kwesiga). It is alleged that Tegera participated in killings in 1990, was the honorary president of the Interhamwe Genocide militia in the Kibilira commune in 1994, and is a major actor in the genocide (Kwesiga, “Justice,” Musoni, Wallis 229). Tegera’s case is now one of twenty-seven open investigations in France concerning alleged perpetrators of genocide in Rwanda (“Rwanda Genocide”). However, France has been exceedingly slow to enact justice. Many of the genocide investigations have dragged on for twenty years, with no end in sight (Gahim 201-202). Furthermore, although the French judicial system has been sluggish in addressing genocide cases, it also refuses to extradite the accused to be tried in

Rwanda, citing the risk of an unfair trial (Gahim 202). Indeed, the request for Tegera’s extradition to Rwanda was refused by France as recently as April 10, 2014 (“Justice”). To date, the only case that has ever gone to trial in France is that of Pascal Simbikangwa, the head of Central Intelligence in Rwanda (“Rwanda Genocide”).

What is more, France played a highly ambiguous and controversial role during the genocide itself (Adelman 166). In 2008, an independent Rwandan commission compiled the

Muyco Report in which credible evidence shows that France was aware of preparations for the genocide (39-50), that French troops helped train the Interahamwe militia (51-73), and that thirty-three French military officials and political officials were directly involved in the genocide. Moreover, “Opération Turquoise” [Operation Turquoise], a funnel created by the

French military to help Tutsi refugees flee, has been criticized for also having allowed numerous Hutu perpetrators to safely exit the country in the aftermath of events

(Lahneman 86, Prunier 308, Kroslak 2233, Smith 173). Furthermore, Colonel Bagosra, who is presumed to be the mastermind behind the genocide, graduated from the École des

Officers in France (Bartrop 29). And, in April of 2014, Rwandan President Paul Kagame

142 publically denounced the “direct role of Belgium and France in the political preparation for the genocide” (Kagame in “France”) and banned the French ambassador from attending the

20th anniversary commemoration ceremony of the genocide (Pflanz). Due to these considerations, the moralizing stance of French scholars is ironic at best and can be critiqued from a post-colonial perspective.

Although Gatore feigned ignorance about his father’s role in the genocide, and has not (to my knowledge) ever publically denounced him, I do not see evidence—either in his novel or in his discourse surrounding the novel—that suggests Gatore is trying to promote a revisionary account of history. Debates on how Le passé devant soi relates to the historical events of the genocide, how accurately characters in Gatore’s novel correspond to real survivors and perpetrators in Rwanda, and how Pierre Tegera’s role in the genocide affects readings of Gatore’s text are important. Nevertheless, these issues are not my main concern in this chapter. Rather, I am interested in analyzing the mechanisms that Gatore uses to express the unspeakable—regardless of what that may be. In particular, Gatore employs a unique set of translation strategies that allow the unsayable to be expressed even when he is no longer able to write in the first-person. Le passé devant soi is an extremely valuable text because it allows us to better understand the complex effects of trauma on the intimate sphere of the imagination.

Testimony

According to Shoshana Felman, testimony is a form of action through which a person reclaims the role of witness (Testimony 85). In order to do so, the person bearing witness must take responsibility for telling the truth (Reader 295). Felman also argues that testimony is not truth, but rather a mode that allows the reader to gain access to the truth

143 (Testimony 18). In addition, Dori Laub theorizes that a listener must be present to hear the testimony, or else the story will be annihilated (Laub 71).

Le passé devant soi can be considered a form of action through which Gatore reclaims the role of witness. In his article “L’Enigme,” Gatore claims that writing the novel allowed him to reconnect with his childhood self, thereby permitting him to form a more integrated and coherent sense of identity. He writes (again in the third person):

Le contraste entre son enfance et sa vie d'aujourd'hui est si radical, qu'un jour il s'est demandé s'il n'était pas en fait un personnage de fiction. Est-il bien le prolongement du petit garçon qui a vécu au Rwanda de 1981, année de sa naissance, à 1994, année de son départ suite au génocide des Tutsi ? Le jeune parisien qu’il est devenu est-il le même que ce petit garçon sur cette photo qui ne quitte jamais son portefeuille ? Est-il vraiment celui qu’il croit avoir été ?. . .Grace à ce voyage intérieur [écrire le roman], le doute qui l'avait si longtemps rongé s'est un peu dissipé. II est certain maintenant d'être le même que l'enfant qui habite ses souvenirs. (Gatore 202)

The contrast between his childhood and his life today is so radical that one day he wondered to himself if he wasn’t actually a fictional character. Was he really the continuation of the little boy who lived in Rwanda from 1981, the year of his birth, to 1994, the year of his departure following the genocide of the Tutsi? The young Parisian that he became—is he the same person as the little boy on the picture that never leaves his wallet? Is he really who he thought he was? . . . Thanks to this internal voyage [writing the novel], the doubt that had eaten away at him for so long has dissipated a little. He is now certain that he is the same as the child that lives in his memories. (my translation)

Gatore challenges the binary between fiction and reality: due to the extreme difference between his past and his present, he wonders if he used to be a fictional character from a book. This makes the novel a genre well-suited for exploring Gatore’s imagination and sense of self. Indeed, the relationship between Gatore and the photo distinctly resembles the fable of the dove and the toad that is told in Le passé devant soi: despite the dove’s best efforts, she cannot get rid of the toad as they race around the world; no matter where she goes, the

144 toad manages to stay with her. Because Isaro is described like a bird, and Niko identifies with the toad, this fable can be read as symbolic of Gatore’s fragmented identity and his inability to leave the past behind. However, because Gatore wrote his novel, he is now able to recognize both of his selves—the child and the adult, the toad and the dove—as part of one, coherent identity. This incorporation of self can be interpreted as Gatore reclaiming a position as witness, since his child-self is the one who lived through the genocide.

Notwithstanding, one could argue that Gatore is not entirely successful in reclaiming his position as witness. In an interview, Gatore states about his text that:

C’est tellement effrayant, en fait, qu’[il y a] des passages que je n’ai jamais relus. Une fois que je les ai écrits, je ne les ai jamais relus. Ce n’est pas moi qui les a tapés a l’ordinateur, ce n’est pas moi qui les a corrigés. Et, et même quand, quand il était question de faire cette lecture ici, il ne m’est jamais venu à l’idée de lire un de ces passages-là. D’une certaine façon, j’ai réussi finalement à me donner l’illusion que je ne les ai jamais écrits et je ne sais même plus de quoi ils parlent. (Allain)

It is so frightening, in fact, that [there are] some passages that I have never re-read. Once I had written them, I never read them again. It is not me who typed them on the computer, it is not me who corrected them. And, and even when, when it came to reading today, it never crossed my mind to read one of those passages. In a way, I have ultimately succeeded in giving myself the illusion that I have never written them and that I don’t know what they are talking about anymore. (my translation)

This defense mechanism serves to regulate Gatore’s awareness of his own text and to protect him from over-exposure to highly charged emotional content. Gatore both situates and hides the location of these unknowable passages by referring to them as “des passages”

[“some passages”] and “ces passages-là” [“those passages there”]. His emphasis that “ce n’est pas moi” [“it is not me”] is first applied to the person who typed the passages, then to the person who corrected them, and then to the person who first wrote them— himself.

This distancing mechanism protects Gatore from the un-writable, unreadable,

145 uncorrectable passages that nevertheless made it into his novel. Due to Gatore’s dissociation from parts of his text, it is unclear whether he can be said to reclaim a position as witness. For this reason, Le passé devant soi can be considered a limit-case of testimony.

According to Felman, testimony is not Truth, but a mode that allows the reader to access truth (Testimony 18). Gatore’s novel fulfills this requirement because he considers his fiction to be a way to express the intimate nature of the genocide that, according to him, would otherwise be impossible to articulate. In an interview with Pierrick Allain, he states:

Ce qui s’est passé en fait au Rwanda a été abordé beaucoup par le témoignage. . . Ça a été abordé énormément par les essais politiques, historiques. Je trouvais en fait qu’il y avait sans doute une possibilité par la fiction d’approcher d’une façon différente la vérité, en fait, de ce qui s’est passé. L’intimité de ce qui s’est passé n’est pas de l’ordre de ce que les gens peuvent dire, même, même aujourd’hui. Donc du coup finalement en la supposant, en y projetant l’imagination de, de, de l’écriture, en fait, d’essayer d’approcher à cette vérité-là. (Allain)

What happened in Rwanda has been addressed a lot by testimony. . . It has been addressed a ton by political and historical essays. I thought that there was surely a way that fiction could approach the truth in a different way, in fact, about what happened. The intimacy of what happened is not something that people can say, even, even today. So, finally, in supposing it, in projecting my imagination onto, onto writing, in fact, I tried to approach this truth. (my translation)

For Gatore, there is harmony between first-person survivor testimony, political or historical essays, and fiction because their end goals are all to reveal truths about the genocide.

Because fiction is portrayed as a modality to reach truth, it can be considered to fulfill

Felman’s requirement of testimony. Interestingly, when Gatore asserts that this intimacy is not something that people can say, it seems that he includes himself in this category. The formulation of the phrase makes it appear as if it is writing’s imagination—not his own— that is able to approach the most intimate elements of the genocide. This peculiarity

146 supports my argument that the most unsayable elements of the narrative occur when the character is knocked unconscious, making it appear as if the text writes itself.

Nevertheless, I would consider Gatore’s novel as a limit-case of testimony because

Gatore also describes his fiction as inventing truth. In an interview with Marine Landrot, he states: “Avant d’être un génocide, les événements de 1994 sont des expériences humaines, individuelles, subjectives. Pourquoi prend-on une machette pour tuer son voisin ? Seule la fiction peut répondre à cette question. Il faut inventer la vérité, pour qu’elle puisse apparaître” (Landrot ) [Before being a genocide, the events of 1994 are individual and subjective human experiences. Why does one pick up a machete to kill his neighbor ? Only fiction can respond to this question. The truth must be invented, so that it can appear” (my translation)]. Gatore emphasizes the subjective nature of experiencing the genocide on an individual and personal level, which is similar to his comments with Pierrick Allain.

However, Gatore also equates fiction with truth—notably, one that must be invented because it cannot emerge otherwise. Accordingly, a shift has occurred from “fiction as a modality to express truth” to “fiction as a means to invent truth.” It is on this point that scholars such as Lacoste and Coquio take issue with Gatore. Because Jean Hatzfeld has published interviews with numerous perpetrators of genocide in Rwanda in Une saison de machettes (2003), it is inaccurate to claim that motivations for genocide must be invented in order for them to appear. Thus, Gatore’s contention would seem to be untenable.

Nevertheless, in Le passé devant soi, it is clear that Niko is a figment of Isaro’s imagination.

As such, Gatore remains within the purview of his intended goal—to explore the effects of the genocide on his imagination. Because the novel can be considered as a genre that allows the reader to access this truth, it can be considered a limit-case of testimony.

147 In order for a text to be considered testimony, the person bearing witness must take responsibility for telling the truth. In characteristically ambiguous fashion, Gatore accepts and shirks this responsibility at the same time, making his novel a limit-case of testimony.

In the article “L’énigme,” Gatore establishes an autobiographical pact with the reader when he writes: “Au-delà de tout ceci [les accusations contre son père], est-il possible de faire entendre qu’il [Gatore] n’a jamais cherché à cacher quoi que ce soit? Qu’il a simplement été autant l’auteur que le sujet de son livre ?” (Gatore 202) [“Despite all of this [accusations against his father], is it possible to make heard that he [Gatore] never tried to hide anything? That he was simply the author as much as the subject of his book?” (my translation)]. Because Gatore is as much the subject of the novel as he is the author, it can be deduced that the entire novel is an exploration of himself. In several interviews, Gatore also makes parallels between his real life and his representations of Isaro. Gatore also seeks to defend his credibility by claiming that he has not hidden anything, which can be interpreted as a truth claim. Problematically, however, Gatore also uses the autobiographical pact as a defense. Having limited the scope of his novel to the individual level, Gatore endeavors to simplify—note the use of the word “simplement” [simply]—the issue of his father’s involvement in the genocide. Gatore’s intense focus on being truthful at the personal level can be interpreted as a way to sidestep the complicated interpersonal dynamics between himself, his father, and the larger Rwandan community.

Gatore’s novel can be considered a limit-case of taking responsibility for the truth because the author consistently reveals underlying motivations. For example, in “L’énigme,” he writes: “Avec le recul, il se dit que c’est peut-être pour tenter de s’approprier des souvenirs qu’il a écrit un roman. A moins qu’il n’ait cherché à leur en substituer d’autres, plus pratiques parce qu’inventés et donc entièrement maîtrisés?” (Gatore 202) [ “With some

148 distance, he said to himself that maybe it was to appropriate his memories that he wrote the novel. Unless he didn’t try to substitute them with other more practical ones because they are invented, and thus entirely mastered” (my translation)]. Gatore makes a tentative autobiographical pact by suggesting that the novel was used to appropriate his memories as his own; however, he immediately calls this into question by proposing an alternate possibility, in which memory is substituted by a more palatable version of fiction. Both here and in the novel, Gatore is frustratingly honest about his deception and ambiguous use of fiction (11). This disarming honesty is used to establish reliability, and therefore can be considered part of the autobiographical pact. For this reason, I would consider his novel a limit-case of taking responsibility for the truth.

Le passé devant soi to be a limit-case of testimony because Gatore frames his fiction as a way to access the most intimate and personal truth about the genocide, he describes Le passé devant soi as a form of action through which he reclaims his childhood, depending on how truth is defined, Gatore takes responsibility for telling it, and the role of the listener is extremely important to the existence of the narrative. Nevertheless, this novel challenges

Felman’s conception of testimony in two important ways. Firstly, Gatore is not able to write in the first-person because of a fragmentation of his identity and an alienation to himself as a child (Gatore “L’Enigme” 202). Secondly, Gatore pushes the limits of testimony because he explores the effects of the genocide on his imagination. As such, Le passé devant soi is not about real, historical events that occurred during the genocide in Rwanda, but about the real effects the genocide has had on the author’s imagination (Gatore in Schoentjes 295). In this manner, the fictional text—as the product of Gatore’s imagination—becomes a mode through which readers gain access to a certain truth. Nevertheless, this text complicates the way we think about truth because it is not being defined in objective or factual terms, nor

149 can it be verified by outside sources. Rather, it is a personal and intimate truth about how

Gatore’s imagination functions when he endeavors to address the subject of the genocide. In other words, Gatore makes a distinction between what is real and what is true.

The importance of the reader

According to Dori Laub, there is an “intimate and total presence of the other when giving testimony” (71). He argues that without the presence of an addressable other who is capable of bearing the weight of the story told, testimony will be annihilated (71). In Le passé devant soi, the reader plays the critical role of the listener. Somewhat surprisingly, the reader is directly addressed in a total of ten passages—four times by the omniscient extradiegetic narrator, and seven times by Isaro, the homodiegetic character narrator. It is possible to distinguish between the two speakers because the heterodiegetic narrator addresses the reader with the formal “vous” form, while Isaro uses the more familiar “tu.” In addition, the paragraphs ‘written’ by Isaro are numbered from 1 to 252, as opposed to the heterodiegetic narrator’s paragraphs that use more traditional formatting. Furthermore, the narrators have different personalities: while the heterodiegetic narrator guides and instructs the reader, the character narrator cajoles and invites him to continue. In tandem, the two narrators maximize the chances that the reader will continue on until the end.

Theoretically, if a reader were capable of fully hearing the narrative, he would understand that the fragments from the different worlds are all part of one, coherent story. If this ideal reader were able to make the connections between the embedded levels of the imagination—understanding them as all part of one person’s being—it would teach Gatore how to fully hear himself. If this were to happen, Gatore would be able to integrate the fragmented parts of his identity into one coherent sense of self. Thus, although the narrators seem to teach the reader how to hear the story being told, ultimately, the

150 intended reader of the novel is Gatore himself. Due to the extreme importance of the reader for the continued existence of the narrative, the novel can be said to be structured as testimony.

The heterodiegetic narrator’s communication with the reader serves three purposes: to guide the reader’s gaze and reactions, to establish an intimate presence, and to transmit the story to the reader. For example, the narrator leads the reader in passages such as: “Votre regard tombe sur elle. . . vous ne censurez pas vos pensées moqueuses. . . Vous n’osez pas rire de cette image. Votre présence doit rester discrète, imperceptible” (11)

[“Your gaze falls on her. . . she hides you don’t censure your mocking thoughts. . . You dare not laugh at the image. Your presence must remain circumspect, unnoticeable” (1)] and

“Imaginez-la belle à la façon qui vous convient. Si cela vous aide à être avec elle, représentez-vous assis derrière ou à côté d’elle, partageant sa vue sur l’extérieur et sur elle- même” (89) [“Imagine her beauty in any way you like. If it helps you to be with her, see yourself sitting behind or beside her, sharing her view over the outside and over herself”

(54)]. The narrator guides the reader’s gaze, impressions, imagination, physical presence, and spatial orientation. As such, the heterodiegetic narrator exerts control over the reader and signals what kind of reader is necessary to hear the story being told. By guiding the reader, the narrator and the reader come to mirror one another, thereby facilitating the transmission of the story from one to the other.

The reader’s role is to be discrete, yet also intimately present with Isaro. For example, the reader is led to fuse with Isaro:

Son silence vous demande de rester avec elle et vous savez que ce n’est pas le moment de lui refuser quoi que ce soit. Alors vous restez, à votre tour figé et absorbé. Dans le silence qui s’installe, il semble que vos esprits se rencontrent. Rien de ce que vous découvrez d’elle (comment, d’ailleurs ? vous évitez la question) ne vous étonne. (11-12)

151

Her silence begs you to stay with her, and somehow you know this is not the time to refuse her anything. So you stay, frozen in place and absorbed as she is. In the settling stillness it seems that your spirits meet. Nothing you discover about her (and how would you? you avoid the question) takes you by surprise. (1)

Silence is presented as an irresistible request for the reader’s presence. In response, the reader is absorbed into the novel in order to meet Isaro in her silence. This moment is critical, as it represents the listener’s ability to hear the unsaid and the unsayable elements of the novel. Importantly, the narrator suspends any astonishment or judgment expressed by the reader. Only in this state does the reader become a ready recipient of the story being told. Later on, the reader’s presence becomes even more intimate: “Dans tous les cas, elle ne peut pas vous voir. Cela vous paraît préférable, vous êtes en elle, vous êtes ses yeux, son souffle ou son souvenir. . . Elle n’écoute pas les voix qui l’appellent derrière la porte du bureau où elle s’est enfermée avec vous” (89) [“[In any case, she cannot see you. That seems preferable to you], you’re inside her, you are her eyes, her breath, or her memory. . . She’s not listening to the voices calling her from behind the door of the office she’s locked herself in with you” (54-55)]. The narrator gives the reader the option to go inside Isaro, experiencing events with her, even as her. In this intimate connection, the reader benefits from a closeness to Isaro that no other character in the novel approaches. If successful, the reader will help to bridge the extreme isolation of the survivor, reinserting her into a social network of human relations.

In the final moments of the novel—and of Isaro’s life—the heterodiegetic narrator offers the story to the reader: “Ou bien ne s’est-elle donné cette peine que pour convertir au moins un inconnu en un ami et lui offrir [ces pages] en mémoire d’elle ? Vous savez ce qu’elle va faire, mais vous restez dans l’ombre d’où vous l’observez depuis le début” (183)

[“Or else did she make the effort only to convert at least one unknown person into a friend 152 and offer him this in memory of herself? You know what she’s going to do, but you stay in the shadows from which you’ve been watching her since the beginning” (118)]. This passage represents both the success and the failure of the reader. In principle, Isaro has converted the reader from a stranger into a friend, indicating that a change has taken place in the reader’s status due to the relationship established between them. However, the reader also fails because he remains an onlooker, powerless to stop Isaro from committing suicide. It is implied that observing is not sufficient, and that action is necessary—in particular, that of ensuring that the story does not die. Because the reader is the sole survivor of the novel (12), he has the responsibility to carry it with him. If Gatore is able to recognize himself as the intended reader, he will be able to successfully reclaim his position as witness to his testimony.

Isaro, the fictional character in Le passé devant soi, also addresses the reader numerous times. The three main purposes of her punctual addresses are to warn the reader of what is to come, to allow the reader opportunities to leave the story, and to appeal for the reader’s empathy. In contrast to the heterodiegetic narrator, who guides and controls the reader, Isaro always gives the reader the free choice to proceed or not. As the reader progresses through the novel, the terms of address reflect an evolution in the relationship.

For example, they evolve from “cher inconnu” (11, 12) [“dear stranger” (1)] and “cher curieux” (15) [“dear bystander” (4)] to “cher compère” (69) [“dear partner” (41)] and “cher lecteur” (149) [“dear reader” (95)]. This increasingly close connection is necessary for the reader to be able to hear the more difficult passages that are presented.

The first three times that Isaro addresses the reader, it is to warn him of the dangers of embarking on the journey of reading the novel. For example, after describing a hurried stranger who left the scene, she writes: “Cher curieux, si tu es aussi pressé que cet étranger,

153 tu peux le suivre et disparaître à ton tour. C’est le meilleur moment car, après ces lignes, il ne te sera plus possible de partir aussi facilement que tu pourrais le faire maintenant” (15)

[“Dear bystander, if you are in as much of a hurry as this stranger you should follow him and vanish as well. This is the best time, for after these lines it won’t be as easy for you as it is now to leave” (4)]. These passages are used to weed out undesirable readers, including those who require fact and fiction to be clearly distinguishable (11), those who are anxious or fearful, and those who are impatient (15). It is only after these explicit warnings that

Isaro begins to tell her story in earnest. Like the heterodiegetic narrator, Isaro’s strategy helps to guide the reader’s reception of the text. However, she does not attempt to control the reader, and therefore arguably enjoys a greater degree of closeness to him. The decrease in control exhibited over the reader, the narrative, and Isaro herself allows the unsayable to emerge in her fictional text through the character of Niko.

While Isaro’s interpellations emphasize the freedom of the reader, she nevertheless seems to hope that he will react in certain ways. For example, she writes:

Cher curieux, j’ai oublié de te prévenir que l’esprit de Niko est un labyrinthe sauvage dans lequel tu consens à te perdre et essaies de garder confiance. C’est en quelque sorte une chute à laquelle il faut s’abandonner, une exploration d’un territoire intime dont il faut accepter qu’il ne soit pas adapté à la visite. Toutefois, n’oublie pas que tu restes libre. Tu peux retourner en arrière, rester ici un instant ou pour toujours, continuer à chercher la sortie ou forcer les murs du dédale pour en sortir plus vite. Prends le temps qu’il te faut pour faire ce choix, et si tu décides de continuer, suis mes pas. (60)

Dear stranger, I forgot to warn you that Niko’s mind is a wild labyrinth in which you agree to become lost and to keep trying to have faith. In a way, it’s a fall to which you must surrender, an exploration of a private domain that you have to accept as unfit for visits. Then again, don’t forget you are still free. You can turn back, stay here for a moment only or forever, continue to look for the exit or break through the walls of the maze to get out faster. Take all the time you need to decide, and, should you choose to go on, follow me.” (35) 154

Here, guided reading is evidenced through the use of phrases such as “il faut” [“you must”] and “essaie de garder confiance” [“keep trying to have faith”] At the same time, freedom is expressed through phrases such as “tu te consens”[“you agree”] and “tu restes libre” [“you are still free”]. The reader is given multiple options for proceeding, as well as unlimited time to make the decision that is right for him. This technique is particularly effective when contrasted with that of the heterodiegetic narrator. Occasionally irked, perhaps, by his domineering attitude, the reader may be more likely to follow Isaro even into the most difficult of passages because she is welcoming, patient, and accommodating.

The most difficult task that Isaro asks of the reader is to exhibit understanding and empathy towards Niko. In the first instance, she uses “nous” to create a sense of camaraderie between herself and the reader:

Cher compère, nous voici au milieu d’une passe inconfortable. Niko est contraint de s’abandonner à la passivité absolue. . . . Notre présence ne lui est d’aucune aide. Il se peut même qu’elle ajoute à son tourment. Laissons-le donc délibérer de la suite et essayons, en attendant, de le connaître mieux. (69)

Dear partner, here we are in the middle of an uncomfortable patch. Niko is forced to give himself up to absolute passivity. . . [O]ur presence is of no use to him at all. It may even be adding to his torment. So let us leave him to ponder the continuation, and, as we wait, let’s try to get to know him better. (41)

Isaro guides the reader to think about what is best for Niko in this moment and to act in order to help him. She makes this response appear quite natural; it is only later that it is revealed that Niko is, actually, a mass murderer and rapist. This development occurs rather late in the story, ensuring that an emotional bond has already been established with Niko, and therefore, the reader will not reject him entirely or stop reading the novel.

155 Finally, Isaro addresses the reader’s possible reactions to the shocking development, and appeals for continued presence and empathy:

Peut-être t’en veux-tu de n’avoir pas détecté cette horreur au premier abord. . . . Que répondrais-tu à quelqu’un qui affirmerait qu’un meurtrier, même le plus acharné, ne se confond avec son geste qu’au moment précis où il le comment? . . . C’est cette partie. . . qui, peut-être, permet de décider de rester en compagnie de Niko ou non. (150)

Perhaps you’re annoyed that you didn’t recognize this horror from the start. . . What would you say to someone who insists that even the most relentless murderer merges with his act only at the precise instant that he commits it? . . .That is the part . . .that might help you decide to stay or not to stay in Niko’s company. (95)

Here, Isaro specifically addresses the reader’s horror and tests the limits of his empathy. In this reading of Le passé devant soi, this passage is critical because the empathy required to understand the imagined killer, Niko, is the depth of empathy required to fully understand and integrate the monstrous self that has been internalized by the survivor, Isaro. Niko is presented as a killer because it makes him the most opposite image possible to that of the victim. Consequently, the abject self does not risk being recognized as self, and will not be incorporated into the survivor’s identity. In order to challenge this dynamic, the reader’s empathy is crucial because it teaches the character narrator how to accept Niko as part of the narrative, and thus of herself.

The unsayable

For Isaro, each instance of the unsayable is introduced through a different medium, including a radio broadcast, a play, a photo album, a fable, and a letter. This technique allows the unsayable to be contained within an embedded text that has a clearly defined beginning and end. As such, it can exist within the larger narrative without overflowing its bounds and annihilating speech. This also gives Isaro the opportunity to interact with the

156 unspeakable in more manageable doses, as she can approach or distance herself from it as necessary. On a larger scale, the same dynamic exists in regards to Isaro’s fictional text about Niko (which is distinguished from the rest of the text through numbered paragraphs.)

What Isaro is unable to say, her mute character is able to express in fiction. Moreover, these are the only times that we have access to his thoughts and desires. By translating her unsayable experiences into the realm of fiction, Isaro is able to describe what Niko is thinking and feeling, even when she remains unaware of her own internal state.

Caves are a reoccurring image throughout the novel that represent the successive layers of the unsayable, the unthinkable, and the unimaginable. The cave that Niko inhabits represents the unsayable because it is surrounded by taboos and prohibitions to cross the threshold of its entrance (15). The cave can also be interpreted as symbolic of Isaro’s nose and mouth (16, 23) because it is described as having a source of warm water (i.e. saliva) and breath (16). In addition, Niko imagines volcanoes to be the feet of the giant, and the hills surrounding the island to be its arms (23). Thus, Isaro can be interpreted as having translated her entire body onto the fictional landscape, allowing Niko to inhabit and explore the unspeakable domain of her mouth through the imagery of the cave.

For Isaro, her native country and language are unspeakable. In one instance, Isaro’s memory is triggered when she accidentally turns up the volume of her radio instead of turning it off (26). The symbolic gesture of volume-control highlights the tension between remembering and forgetting. The news report alludes to the genocide in Rwanda because it discusses the overwhelming number of perpetrators waiting for trials, and because the radio itself was widely used during the genocide to disseminate hatred. It also embodies the unsayable because the word “Rwanda” is never mentioned. Instead, the country is described as “un pays don’t la seule evocation la figeait d’inquiétude” (26) [“in a country of

157 which the mere mention made her freeze with anxiety” (11)] and “son pays natal” (26) [“her native land” (11)]. This circumlocution highlights Isaro’s subjective and personal relationship to Rwanda rather than emphasizing the country itself.

Isaro’s unspeakable relationship to her native language is demonstrated when she attends a theatrical play entitled “En mémoire de lui” [In Memory of Him]. The unsayable is embodied by the main character who is described as having “une maladie incurable et dont le nom est impronçable” (40) [“an incurable disease [with an] unpronounceable name”

(21)]. The play is linked to Rwanda through its use of Kinyarwanda: “Elle identifiait très bien sa langue maternelle à défaut de savoir la parler” (41) [“She could easily identify her mother tongue even if she didn’t know how to speak it” (21)]. Like Isaro’s origins, her native language is never explicitly named; rather, it is her relationship to the language that is stressed.4 The play inspires Isaro to write her own work, which she entitles “En mémoire de…” (43) [“In Memory of…” (23)]. The ellipsis in the title highlights the presence of the unsayable because the original “lui” is omitted. Importantly, it is at this moment in the novel that the reader first learns Isaro’s name (44). This overlap highlights the importance of the unspeakable in the construction of Isaro’s identity.

Although Isaro’s native language and country remain unspeakable, Niko is able to express both of them. From his vantage point inside the forbidden cave, he invents a pretend community called “Iwaku,” which means “our home” in Kinyarwanda (172, 177).

The imaginary inhabitants of the community all bear names with symbolic meanings:

Uwitonze means “quiet, humble,” Uwera means “holy one” and Shema means “pride,

4 There is, however, one untranslated phrase in the novel: “Itonde ntacyo twari twakwangira” (75). This sentence has been identified by Théophile Munyangeyo as Kinyarwanda for: “Calm down, we haven’t refused you anything yet” (Munyangeyo in Hitchcott 80). 158 honor.”5 Through this symbolic gesture, Niko appropriates the unspeakable realm as his home and re-infuses it with value: to the guilty teacher, he gives contrition; to the raped woman, he attributes purity; to the exiled story-teller, he endows honor. This utopic microcosm of Rwanda can be read as a desire for order and justice, and a way to resolve

Isaro’s problematic relationship to her homeland.

Isaro’s childhood is also part of the unspeakable realm. For her eighteenth birthday, her adoptive parents give her two binders of photos spanning from Isaro’s arrival in France to the present. Her father announces: “Tout y est!” (52) [“Everything is there!” (30)], but for

Isaro, the album only highlights the absence of photos from her childhood in Rwanda:

[T]out y était sauf ce qu’il n’y avait pas, c’est-à-dire ce qui avait eu lieu avant la première photo. . . [C]ette consignation soignée et systématique de ses faits et gestes depuis qu’elle était là ne faisait que souligner ce qui était omis, ce qu’il y avait eu avant tout cela. (53)

Everything was there except for what was missing—what had taken place before the first photograph, that is. . . the careful and systematic chronicling of her acts and gestures since she had arrived only highlighted what was omitted, what had been there before all this. (30)

The photo album highlights the subjective nature of the beginning of a story. Because Isaro and her adoptive parents do not agree on the same starting point for Isaro’s beginning, they have different conceptualizations of her present identity. For Isaro, the unsayable exists because not saying what she experienced in Rwanda is equated with saying that she is thankful and wishes to experience a sense of belonging in France (52). The underlying fear expressed is that if Isaro shows her need to grieve, it will threaten her relationship with her adoptive parents.

5 Many thanks to Marion Busingye for the translations 159 Although Isaro is unable to remember her early childhood or express her grief, Niko is able to do both of these things. Niko has an extraordinary memory, as demonstrated in the following passage:

Il resta désespérément muet. . . [il a] une forme de mutisme total qui ne permet même pas de crier, de pleurer ou de gémir. Niko se souvenait de tout ceci car il avait conservé la mémoire précise de tout ce qu’il avait connu depuis qu’il sortit du ventre de sa pauvre mère. (81)

[H]e remained desperately mute. . .[he has] a rare form of complete mutism that doesn’t even let you cry, weep, or moan. Niko remembered all of this, for he’d retained a very precise memory of everything he’d ever known from the moment he left his poor mother’s belly. (49)

Even though childhood memories remain in the domain of the unsayable (Niko is completely mute), they are no longer unthinkable. Moreover, although Niko is not able to cry, he is able to convey his desire to mourn: “Pour la première fois de sa vie, sa gorge aphone lui parut un handicap sérieux. Il aurait aimé avoir une voix, pouvoir crier et pleurer vraiment” (149) [“For the first time in his life his voiceless throat seemed a severe handicap to him. He would have liked to have a voice to really cry out and weep” (95)]. Although Niko is not able to verbalize his memories or voice his grief in the fictional text, as the narrator,

Isaro is able to describe Niko’s unspeakable experiences for him. This distancing mechanism allows her to express her own displaced emotions when it is too difficult for her to voice them directly.

Isaro’s departure from Rwanda is also unspeakable. She avoids asking her adoptive parents about this moment out of fear: “Elle ne leur demanda pas comment elle s’était retrouvée seule au point de les obliger à la prendre avec eux pour la sauver. Elle ne les interrogea pas parce qu’elle avait à la fois peur qu’ils lui disent la vérité et qu’ils la lui dissimulent” (91) [“She didn’t ask them how she’d come to be so much alone that they’d felt obliged to take her with them to save her. She didn’t question them because she was afraid 160 both that they would tell her the truth and that they would hide it from her” (56)]. Because

Isaro cannot handle either the truth or a lie, she does not ask anything at all. Her fear of the possible response masks any other emotions she may have originally felt, leaving the experience unknowable.

Niko, however, is able to express his emotions in a parallel scene, where he is obligated to leave the lake he loves and go with a group of monkeys, who become his adopted family:

Le bonheur, c’est ce qu’on est obligé de quitter. Voilà ce qu’il se dit au moment où il se lève. . . Une voix, au fond de lui, lui conseille de faire confiance à ces singes. Son cœur semble sûr que leur sort et le sien seront désormais liés. Il est certain qu’ils le guideront vers la nourriture la plus proche. (37)

Happiness is what you are forced to abandon. That’s what he tells himself when he finally gets up. . . A voice deep inside tells him to trust the monkeys. His heart seems sure that their destinies will be linked from now on. He’s certain they will guide him to the closest food. (18-19)

Niko is able to express an attachment to the lake that Isaro is not able to display towards

Rwanda. Through this translation, we are able to glimpse the happiness associated with this place that is originally masked by Isaro’s fear. Moreover, while Isaro has difficulty trusting anyone, including her adoptive parents and her boyfriend, Niko is able to experience an instinctual trust towards the monkeys. Through this fictional character, Isaro can express the emotions that she is now unable to experience. What is more, Niko is able to reflect on serious questions concerning his familial ties that Isaro is hesitant to explore about her own adoptive parents. For example, Niko asks: “Doit-on quelque chose à son ange gardien ? De quoi a-t-il besoin de se protéger ?” (57) [“Does one owe something to one’s guardian angel?

What does he need to be protected from?” (34)]. Although Niko never offers answers, his

161 habit of questioning sheds light on Isaro’s impenetrable states as she passes through the unsayable.

The final representation of the unsayable takes the form of a letter that Isaro writes to her parents in response to their revelation of what occurred in Rwanda: “[E]lle a laissé sur son bureau les brouillons de toutes ses lettres. Celui-ci est illisible, couvert de ratures.

On a le sentiment qu’elle cherche à y dire quelque chose qui ne vient pas et que, finalement, tout son propos est à côté de l’essentiel, indicible” (179-80) [“Together with the mail she received, she’s left the rough drafts of all her letters on her desk. The last one is illegible, covered with deletions. You get the feeling that she tried to say something that won’t come and that, in the end, every phrase is beside the point, is beyond words” (116)]. The illegible draft of the letter that is filled with crossed-out words comes closest to expressing the unsayableness of Isaro’s experience. Indeed, the final version of her letter states: “Je suis incapable de vous dire vraiment ce que j’ai ressenti en lisant votre lettre” (180) [“I am incapable of telling you what I really felt as I read your letter (116)”]. The numerous versions of Isaro’s letter, along with the conflicting emotions expressed in them, hide her true emotional state (182). Consequently, her experience becomes unknowable—to herself and the reader.

Niko lives through a similar experience: while Isaro saw her parents murdered before her, Niko witnessed the killing of a monkey who was part of his make-shift family

(38-40). Isaro narrates:

Soudain et pour la première fois, Niko se sentit trop petit pour ce qu’il avait vu, fait et entendu. Les émotions qu’il s’était tant et si bien gardé de ressentir débordèrent et se répandirent au sol, devant lui, sous forme de vomi irrépressible. Ce malaise le secoua comme s’il s’était agi de le retrousser et d’exposer à l’extérieur qui il était au fond. Niko savait de quoi il aurait eu l’air ainsi exposé et il s’en sentait encore plus écœuré. Il tremblait aussi, comme si l’assurance dans laquelle il s’était emmitouflé était tombée de ses

162 épaules trop faibles. Elle le laissait dans une nudité obscène. Sa propre existence le regardait avec des yeux déçus, l’air de lui dire qu’il ne la méritait plus. (143)

Suddenly and for the first time Niko felt too small for what he has seen, done, and heard. The emotions, which he’s been so good at suppressing, overflowed and spread across the ground in front of him in the form of uncontrollable vomit. The malaise shook him as if it were a question of laying bare to the outside world who, at the very core, he really was. Niko knew what he’d look like exposed this way, and that sickened him even more. He was shaking, too, as if the assurance in which he’d wrapped himself had fallen off his all too puny shoulders. It left him obscenely naked. His own existence was scrutinizing him with disappointment in its eyes, as if telling him that he was no longer deserving. (90-91)

In this passage, emotion is magnified while Niko is minimized. His vulnerability is expressed through expressions such as “exposé” [“exposed”] and “nudité obscene” [“obscene nudity”].

Moreover, psychosomatic symptoms help to indicate the strength of emotion encoded in the narration. However, the weight of this emotion is so unsupportable that Niko immediately withdraws from humanity and attempts to forget everything he ever knew. This avoidance mirrors that of Isaro, and suggests that the experience has not been fully processed, even at this level of fiction.

In sum, the unspeakable covers a significant part of Isaro’s life, including her native language and country, her childhood, her departure from Rwanda, and her parents’ death.

Isaro is unable to verbalize these experiences or feel the emotions attached to them.

However, she navigates around these difficulties by writing a fictional text in which Niko, her mute character, is paradoxically able to express what neither of them can verbalize. As an extra-diegetic narrator, Isaro describes Niko’s thoughts and desires and uses rhetorical questions to illuminate her masked emotions. By reading the original and translated versions side-by-side, the reader is able to gain a better understanding of how Isaro

163 experienced the unspeakable. This is similar to Lejeune’s concept of “stereography” except that both versions are fiction.

The unknowable

Although Isaro translates the unsayable into the domain of fiction so that it can be expressed by Niko, the “unknowable” is a more complex phenomenon that requires an additional translation movement onto animal beings. The two unknowable elements of the novel can be formulated as: “What happened in Rwanda?” and “Did Isaro die?” These questions relate to the moment when Isaro witnessed her parents being slaughtered and miraculously survived the shots fired underneath the bed where she was hiding. The second question also relates to Isaro’s attempted suicide after her eighteenth birthday. Niko helps to process these moments by translating his identity onto a monkey and a goat—both of whom he names “Niko” after himself. His relationships to the slaughtered animals elucidate

Isaro’s internal states during the two unknowable moments of her life.

The first unknowable question that Isaro grapples with is whether or not she actually died. Her uncertainty is exhibited in the description of her suicide attempt after her eighteenth birthday:

Aujourd’hui, et c’est bien la seule chose qui lui échappe de cette époque qu’elle traverse en pensée, elle ne sait pas si elle mourut ou pas. Avec toutes les précautions qu’elle avait prises pour réussir sa mort, elle sait qu’elle n’a pas pu en réchapper. Cela dit, elle est obligée de constater qu’elle est bel et bien vivante. Elle ne s’épuise pas à défaire le nœud de ce paradoxe, trop serré pour elle, si ce n’est en se persuadant que même si aucun signe n’en témoigne, la mort n’est jamais sûre et définitive. (64-65)

The only thing that escapes her from the era she’s going through in her mind is that today she doesn’t know whether she died or not. With all the precautions she’d taken to make sure she would die, she knows she couldn’t have come through it alive. That said, she’s forced to deduce that she’s very much alive. She doesn’t wear herself out trying to undo the knot of this paradox—it’s too tight for her—but merely convinces herself that, even without any sign to attest to it, death is never certain and definitive. (38) 164

The use of the word “aujourd’hui” [“today”] creates distance between the moment of narration and the event being narrated. By accentuating the temporal shift, the reader is forced to confront the paradox of Isaro’s survival: since she is narrating the event, it is evident that she is still alive; however, this is impossible due to the multiple ways that Isaro ensured the certainty of her death. Isaro’s impossible survival is reminiscent of her original missed death in Rwanda. As Cathy Caruth states, “Not having truly known the threat of death in the past, the survivor is forced, continually, to confront it over and over again” (62).

Isaro’s failed suicide can be interpreted as a re-enactment of the scene in Rwanda. By bringing the past into the present, she hopes to finally resolve the unknowable paradox of whether or not she died.

The scene of Isaro’s parents death is recounted to her in a letter by her adoptive parents. Although Isaro has always known—on a certain level—what had happened, she needed them to put it into words in order to consciously remember it (153). Their account is as follows:

Le chef demanda combien de gens il y avait sous le lit et ta mère assura qu’il y restait deux personnes: ton père et ta grande sœur. Ils sortirent en te laissant tapie là au fond. Tes parents furent abattus et ta sœur emportée. Pour s’assurer qu’il n’y restait personne et plutôt que de se baisser, le meneur de la bande tira quelques balles à travers le lit. . . Lorsqu’ils sortirent, nous n’osâmes pas regarder sous le lit, certains qu’ils t’avaient touchée et redoutant d’y découvrir ton cadavre. Au bout d’un long silence, ta petite voix murmura: “Maman ? Papa ?” (154)

The leader asked how many people were under the bed and your mother said there were two persons left: your father and your big sister. They came out, leaving you crouched in the back. Your parents were killed and your sister was taken away. To be sure there was no one left and rather than bending down to look, the leader shot a few bullets through the bed. I won’t go into the punishment they had for us, paltry compared to everything else. When they were gone we didn’t dare look under the bed, sure they had hit

165 you and dreading to have to find your body. After a long silence, your little voice muttered, “Mama? Papa?” (98)

Isaro’s body is erased when her mother affirms that there are only two other people under the bed. In addition, the certainty of Isaro’s death is expressed by the perpetrator (“pour s’assurer”) and Isaro’s now-adoptive parents (“certains”). Unsurprisingly, then, Isaro has internalized the certainty that she died. Nevertheless, instead of finding a cadaver, the adoptive parents are confronted with the impossible reality of Isaro’s survival when the young girl speaks. Isaro’s suicide attempt mimics this scene because the voice that recounts the event confronts the reader—and herself—with the reality that she is still alive.

However, Isaro’s deepest desire is to confront her adoptive parents with her cadaver, thereby causing her erased body to become visible. This wish is expressed in the following passage: “Une fois, elle rêva même qu’on cassait la porte de son logement pour l’en tirer, que sa métamorphose choquait tous ceux qui la connaissaient. . . Incarner l’horreur et faire

éclater aux yeux de tous son malheur, indiscutable et gênant” (63) [“Once she actually dreamed that they were breaking down her door to drag her out and that her transformation would shock everyone who knew her. . . Incarnating horror and having her unspeakable, embarrassing misery explode before the eyes of everyone” (37)]. In other words, Isaro’s suicide attempt endeavors to make her body visible in order to physically manifest her unspeakable pain. Indeed, the crucial element missing from the novel is Isaro’s account of what happened that day. Isaro’s fictional text is of utmost importance because it describes, in symbolic form, what she experienced.

Isaro’s fictional narrative first expresses the unknowable moment of her suicide through a scene in which a monkey is shot. Niko becomes overwhelmed by memories, trembles uncontrollably, is unaware of what is happening around him, and remains detached from the scene (38-39). These elements suggest that Niko is reliving a previous 166 event because he is not entirely present. When the monkey is shot (40), it is unclear whether it is the sound of the explosion—or an actual bullet—penetrates Niko himself (39).

Fluidity exists between Niko and the monkey because his childhood nickname is Niko-the- monkey due to his monstrous dentition (98). Furthermore, after the monkey’s death, Niko names it after himself (62). This identification with the monkey elucidates Isaro’s confusion about whether she died or not. Niko thinks that the monkey was hit by the bullet that was destined for himself (46). As such, he can be interpreted as manifesting survivor guilt.

Contrary to Isaro, however, after a long moment of silence, Niko realizes that he is still living. He preserves the monkey’s corpse by stuffing its stomach with leaves (57), thereby mirroring Isaro’s suicide attempt when she filled her stomach with pills (64). Furthermore,

Niko hangs the body of the monkey at the entrance of the cave like a talisman (61), making the cadaver extremely apparent—both visually and olfactorily—throughout the remainder of the novel. The fictional account represents a resolution of Isaro’s suicide because Niko realizes that he has survived, the monkey’s cadaver is made abundantly visible, and Niko is able to mourn the passing of the cadaver in a ceremony (62). Importantly, the cadaver is able to communicate the unknowable to him with its eyes: “A côté de lui, l’œil du singe qu’il a éventré et transporté paraît le fixer et lui demander quelque chose ” (57) [“Next to him, the eye of the monkey he disemboweled and brought back seems to be staring at him, asking him something” (33)]. It is unclear what the monkey communicates to Niko. The essential, however, is not the content of the message, but to know that the message has been transmitted between the two Nikos.

For Niko (the human), the monkey’s death triggers the memory of another killing scene—this time, one in which he witnesses the slaughter of a young goat. The connection between these two animal slaughters supports the connection made between Isaro’s suicide

167 and her witnessing her parent’s death in Rwanda. To an even greater extent than with the monkey, Niko over-identifies with the goat that he has named after himself. This leads to passages where it is impossible to know which Niko is which. For example: “Pendant plusieurs mois, les deux Niko passèrent donc ensemble le plus clair de leur temps, inséparables, à téter, à brouter et à courir l’un derrière l’autre ; même si dans cette dernière activité, il faut le dire, c’est plus Niko qui courrait derrière Niko que le contraire” (48) [“And so, for several months, the two Nikos, inseparable, spent the better part of their time together, feeding, grazing, and chasing each other around—although, where the last activity was concerned, it should be said that it was more Niko running after Niko than the reverse”

(26)]. The relationship between the two friends is also humorous because Niko, who is mute, tries to teach the goat (who is also mute) to talk (48). Isaro narrates: “En tout cas, à en croire l’épanouissement du maître, les progrès de l’élève étaient nets” (88) [“In any event, judging by the teacher’s blossoming, the pupil’s progress was clear” (54)]. The comedic descriptions of this relationship highlights Niko’s affection for the goat, and sets this relationship apart from any other interactions described in the novel. The once humorous overlapping of identity becomes all the more tragic when Niko-the-goat is slaughtered: “Le coup qui tranche la nuque de Niko paralysa Niko comme s’il eût été à sa place” (88) [“The blow that slashed Niko’s neck paralyzed Niko as if he’d been in his place” (54)]. Afterwards, it remains ambiguous which Niko has been killed, since “Niko était retourné dans l’étable où il passa la nuit” (49) [“Niko had gone back to the stable, where he spent the night” (27)].

Because the Nikos do everything together, including sleep in the stable, it is very unclear who died and who witnessed the dying. In this scene, the complete overlap of identities highlights the strength of the emotional bond between the two friends. Indeed, when the goat dies, Niko expresses: “On avait voulu le priver du seul être qu’il aimât. Il en garde une

168 profonde blessure qui lui refait mal lorsqu’il y repense, longtemps après” (48) [“They’d simply wanted to deprive him of the only creature he loved. It remains a deep wound for him and hurts whenever he thinks about it, even such a long time afterward” (26)] and “Par prudence, Niko ne se lia plus avec rien ni personne, se contentant d’être là où il fallait quand il le fallait” (88) [“As a precaution, Niko no longer connected with anything or anyone, being content to be where he ought to be when he ought to be there” (54)].

Finally, the goat expresses an unknowable message to Niko through its eyes (88). As with the monkey, what it is that has been communicated between the Nikos remains an impenetrable secret (88); the importance is simply that the exchange has taken place. This scene, which explicitly expresses Niko’s bereavement, helps to elucidate why Isaro cannot experience love towards her adoptive parents, her boyfriend, or her friends. The translation of Niko’s identity onto the goat also helps to explain why Isaro is unsure if she died or not. It appears that Niko loved the goat so much that at the moment of its death, he is unsure if he died as well; likewise, it appears that Isaro experienced such a strong emotional connection with her parents that she is unsure if she died with them or not.

Although Isaro never directly narrates the scene of her parent’s death or her failed suicide attempt, she is able to represent these two events in the realm of fiction. In order to express such difficult elements, Niko projects his identity onto two animal beings—a monkey and a goat, both of whom are named after himself. Through his interactions with these animals and their corpses, it is possible to deduce what Isaro must have experienced and felt during the unknowable moments of her life. In both instances, the animals’ eyes communicate with Niko, but what it is that they say is altogether unknowable.

The traumatic

169 The key to understanding the entire novel is to recognize that from the moment

Isaro witnessed her parents’ death (and fictionally, from the moment Niko witnessed the goat’s slaughter), love becomes inextricably fused with killing. Forever after, neither Isaro nor Niko can ever experience love without triggering killing—themselves or others.

Without exception, every time that love is evoked in the novel, killing ensues. For this reason, I argue that the deep logic that governs and structures the narrative is, at its core, a traumatic understanding of the world.

After her eighteenth birthday, Isaro’s relationship with her adopted parents becomes increasingly strained because she is unable to handle their affection towards her.

The more they understand and support her, the more unsupportable it becomes for Isaro.

The message left on her answering machine, in which her adopted mother says the fatal words—“On t’aime!” (56) [“We love you!” (32)]—triggers Isaro to attempt suicide for the first time. Likewise, when Isaro wants to tell her boyfriend, Kizito, that she loves him, an unexpected question surfaces instead: “Elle avait regardé Kizito, voulant lui dire qu’elle l’aimait. Au lieu de cela, une question inouïe avait explosé dans sa tête : ‘Et si c’était lui ?’”

(182) [“[S]he looked at Kizito, wanting to tell him she loved him. Instead of that, a bewildering question exploded in her head: “What if it was he?” (118)]. The impassable nature of the past exists because Isaro is unable to recognize that, for her, love has become traumatically fused with killing. Overwhelmed by the force of the trigger, Isaro is pushed to commit suicide a second time—this time successfully because the novel ends.

Isaro had written the fictional text about Niko to grapple with the unknowable identity of her parents’ killer. In a letter to her parents, she writes: “C’est un peu celui qui a pu faire ça que j’ai essayé d’approcher, de comprendre, de tuer et de pardonner” (181)

[“He’s a bit like the one who may have done what it is I’ve tried to come within reach of, to

170 understand—killing and forgiving (117)]. However, as critics have noted, Niko does not accurately represent the psychology of a killer. Niko does, however, embody the traumatic because he repetitively reenacts the trigger between love and killing that Isaro has come to believe. Critics locate the impetus for Niko’s participation in the genocide in the impossible dilemma of being forced to kill his father or be killed himself. However, a careful examination of the text reveals that this is not the case. Rather, the trigger for Niko’s participation in the genocide is that Hyacinthe, whom he loves, passes by (100, 124). In consequence, he attempts to save her by drawing attention to himself (he drops a pitcher to distract the men chasing her). It is this action that leads Niko into the predicament of killing his father, which then leads to the killings on a massive scale. As such, Niko’s participation in the genocide stems from a reenactment of the traumatic relationship between love and killing. What is more, in a reoccurring dream, Niko always comes across a boy singing a love song to a blood-spattered girl who is dying in his arms. The girl is “en tout point semblable à

Hyacinthe” (157) [“resembling Hyacinthe in every aspect” (101)]. Moreover, the boy is undoubtedly Niko: “un jeune homme qui lui ressemble” (157)[“a young man who looks like him” (101)] and “le garcon qui lui ressemble si étrangement” (158) [“The boy who so oddly resembles him” (101)]. When Niko hears the love song that the boy sings to the girl—“Si c’est cela, ma chérie, Ferme les yeux, Et inspire profondément. Prépare-toi pour ton dernier soupir” (158) [“If that’s the case, my darling,Close your eyes, Breathe deeply. Get ready for your last sigh” (101)]—he is overcome with rage and hacks them into a thousand pieces.

Once again, Niko has been triggered to reenact the traumatic fusion between love and killing.

The destruction of this memory causes a chain-reaction of killing from the deepest level of the imagination outwards: all the characters in Niko’s dream-world kill each other,

171 then all the characters in Niko’s imagination die, after which Niko himself dies; finally, Isaro commits suicide and the novel ends. As such, the reader becomes the sole survivor of the novel, and is placed in the position of a witness to the traumatic and intimate massacres of the genocide.

Conclusion

Le passé devant soi is a valuable work because of its complex, revealing, and accurate portrayal of traumatic logic. Although it cannot be considered a testimony of real events that took place during the genocide in Rwanda, it can be considered a testimony of the effects of the genocide on the author’s imagination. Gatore translates his identity across a series of fictional selves, each of whom only exists in the imagination of the previous self.

With each successive translation, increasingly difficult material is able to be processed. For example, when Isaro translates her identity onto Niko, she is able to narrate the unsayable elements of her own experience. Moreover, when Niko translates his identity onto animal bodies, Isaro is able to express the unknowable elements of her experience. What none of the characters realize, however, is the traumatic logic that governs all the layers of the novel. Tragically, love has become inextricably fused with killing. In consequence, a rapid chain-reaction of killing occurs from the core of the imagination outwards, leaving the reader as the sole survivor of the novel. In this way, Gatore masterfully positions the reader to witness the most intimate and repetitive violence that continues to be perpetuated in the aftermath of the genocide—that which exists in the imagination of survivors.

172

Chapter 6: Conclusion

This dissertation uses the concept of translation to explain how trauma testimony is performed when the self has been destroyed and is no longer able to bear witness in the first person. By translating across languages, literary genres, or bodies, certain 20th century

French and Francophone authors testify of the destruction of their selves. The first translation movement creates a new self who most closely approximates the original subject before it was destroyed. This “approximate” self is marked by increased strength, agency, and emotional expression. Although the new self is able to verbalize many elements of the trauma endured, it is unable to process entirely the experience. A second, more radical translation movement is necessary to create a self who most closely mirrors the destroyed being. This self represents the loss of subjectivity and is marked by death, destruction, and vulnerability. However, from this vantage point, it is possible for the third self to speak, voicing the most difficult elements of trauma that remain inaccessible from either of the previous two positions. This tripartite configuration allows the survivor to successfully reconfigure a stable sense of self because trauma is split into more manageable parts and is processed gradually. Thus, translation allows survivors to compensate for an inability to bear witness in the first person, to recreate the self, and to attribute meaning to an event.

According to Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub, testimony is a form of action through which a person reclaims the role of witness; it is also a mode that permits access to truth. In testimony, the listener allows the narrative to be told and the survivor to become more

173 aware of his or her own story. The four texts examined—Journal (2008) by Hélène Berr, La

Douleur (1985) by Marguerite Duras, Djamila Boupacha (1962) by Simone de Beauvoir and

Gisèle Halimi, and Le passé devant soi (2008)—can all be read as forms of testimony because they fulfill these criteria. However, each work also challenges this conception of testimony in unique ways. In Journal, Berr does not remain a stationary figure, speaking from an

“utterly unique and irreplaceable topographical position with respect to an occurrence”

(Felman 297). Rather, as a bilingual, she negotiates between two different socio- linguistically constructed identities through codeswitching. Her testimony shows that the position from which one speaks is not irreplaceable, and that it is not necessary to use one’s own words in order to bear witness of trauma. La Douleur also goes beyond this conception of translation because Duras tells multiple versions of the same story in autobiography, auto-fiction, and fiction. While autobiography prioritizes factual and historical accuracy, the increasingly fictionalized narratives allow an intimate and emotional truth to be expressed.

In Djamila Boupacha, Boupacha’s testimony is translated across two women’s bodies.

Halimi and Beauvoir become co-owners of Boupacha’s story and also speak from their own unique positions as influenced by their social positioning. Halimi bears witness to the reception of Boupacha’s testimony in court, while Beauvoir testifies of its reception in the

“court” of French public opinion. Le passé devant soi also goes beyond this model of testimony because Gatore’s novel does not testify of real, historical events, but of the effects of the genocide in Rwanda on his imagination. His work problematizes testimony because it makes a distinction between what is real and what is true.

In each of the literary works examined, the survivor demonstrates a destruction of the original self and an inability to speak in the first person. In Journal, Berr describes her life as being posthumous and occasionally omits the first-person pronoun “je” [“I”]

174 throughout her narrative. In La douleur, Duras also expresses the death of her original self in the autobiographical “La douleur.” While painful, this death provides a sense of stability and an escape from overwhelming emotions related to the long wait for news of Robert L.

During her performance of death, the narrator exhibits depersonalization and describes events in the third person (50-52). In Djamila Boupacha, the destruction of Boupacha’s original self is evidenced when she describes herself as having been outside of humanity during torture (72). The destruction of Boupacha’s original self can be seen through a shift from the first-person singular “I” to the first-person plural “we” when she alludes to rape. In his article “L’énigme,” Gatore explains that he is unable to write about himself in the first- person due to a fragmentation of identity. Both of his main characters believe that they have died: Isaro attempts suicide twice, while Niko over-identifies with slaughtered animals.

Due to a death of self and the inability to testify in the first person, translation movements are necessary in order to bear witness. The initial translation movement testifies that the original self has been destroyed (there would be no need for movement if it remained). It appears that the new self is created to most closely resemble the original subject before it was destroyed. However, it is possible for the re-created self to bear witness to some of the experiences that were unsayable from its original position. In

Journal, Berr uses French when she operates within community norms established by the

Nazis, but switches into English in order to establish a new set of rights. English operates as a distinct linguistic field in which Berr is able to maintain her capacity for emotion despite the dehumanizing environment that surrounded her. In La douleur, the narrator is translated into the semi-fictional character Thérèse, who has both an all-powerful voice and a powerfully sexual body. In Djamila Boupacha, Boupacha is also transported to France. As a courageous and articulate plaintiff with an exceptional memory, Boupacha most closely

175 resembles the subject she was before her identity as a virgin was destroyed through torture and rape. In Le passé devant soi, Isaro clearly resembles Gatore as the author he is today.1

Through her narration of Niko’s thoughts and feelings, Isaro is able to verbalize her own internal states even when they remain inaccessible to her directly.

After this first translation movement, a more radical translation is necessary in order to mirror the loss of subjectivity and the destruction of self in its original topographical position. In a sense, the second translation movement re-creates destruction.

Even though the experience of destruction remains unspeakable for the original self, it is possible for the new self to speak of destruction from its new vantage point. In Journal, Berr translates her authorial voice onto English literature in order to express that she experiences herself as having died. These passages, written in the third-person, give precious insight into what Berr was experiencing but unable to voice in the first-person. In

La douleur, Thérèse is translated into the young boy Marcel in “Ortie Brisée,” This fictional character is able to express his vulnerability and fear. Moreover, Marcel is inseparable from his baby brother, whose voiceless, sleeping body covered in flies is suggestive of a cadaver.

Furthermore, the old woman in “Aurélia Paris” is strongly associated with death, while the young girl Aurélia Steiner is linked to a rebirth of subjectivity since she reintroduces the first-person “I” into the narrative. In Djamila Boupacha, Boupacha is continuously infantilized, victimized, and portrayed as defenseless in French public discourse. As such,

Boupacha is placed in a subordinate role that most closely mirrors the loss of subjectivity that she originally endured during torture. While this translation movement corresponds to the dynamic found in the other works, it is problematic because Boupacha did not initiate

1 In interviews, Gatore has established numerous parallels between their lives, since they both study in Paris, experience a disconnection to their childhood selves, and hope to carry out an impossible narrative project documenting everyone’s memories of the genocide in Rwanda.

176 this representation of herself. Nevertheless, the transformation of Boupacha’s identity into a national symbol allows Beauvoir to transfer shame from Algeria onto France, thereby challenging colonial discourses of power. In Le passé devant soi, Niko helps to process the unknowable elements of Isaro’s experience by translating his identity onto a monkey and a goat, both of whom he names after himself. Through his interactions with these animals’ corpses, it is possible to deduce Isaro’s internal states during her attempted suicide and the murder of her parents.

In conclusion, translation as testimony allows survivors to compensate for an inability to bear witness in the first-person due to a destruction of self. Each successive translation movement allows increased emotional expression and realizations. As such, translation can be interpreted as a narrative strategy used not only to testify, but to recreate the self, construct meaning, and process trauma.

This dissertation is relevant to trauma studies because it explores the dynamics of trauma testimony for those whose selves have been destroyed. The use of translation as a theoretical model for testimony reveals that the narrative strategies used by various French and Francophone authors are not isolated phenomenon, but rather a part of a coherent and logical process. With this new understanding, it is possible to further investigate the recreation of self and subjectivity, as well as the diverse strategies used to give voice to

(in)human experience. What is more, differences in translation strategies can help us to recognize divergent understandings of what the self is and how trauma is experienced in a more global context.

177

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