(THE FATE OF THE EMIGRANT)

S. V. PROZHOGINA

Doctor of Philological Sciences

Institute of Oriental Studies of the Russian Academy of Sciences

Morocco Keywords:, Tahar Bendjelloun, novel "Au pays" ("Home"), Arab immigrants in France

To tell about the next and significant work of the Moroccan writer Tahar Benjelloun (p. 1944) is always not only pleasant (after all, we are talking about the work of a wonderful artist of the word, winner of the Goncourt Prize, the largest representative of modern literature in both the East and the West), but also important. He always touches on the most pressing issues of life both in his own country and in France, where he often lives and works; he focuses on the acute problems of political, social and spiritual reality, which can no longer be imagined without the intersection of the paths and destinies of different peoples... He is not only an excellent novelist and poet, who began writing quite early (his collection of poems "People under the shroud of Silence" and the novel "Harruda" brought him world fame in the 1970s).

Tahar Bendjelloun , a prominent sociopsychologist, ran the Center for the Study of North African Immigrants in Paris, published the sharp pamphlet "French Hospitality" in the late 70s and the book "Racism told to my Daughter" in the late 90s, which the French authorities introduced to the mandatory list of literature for schoolchildren.

Today, he has written several dozen novels, novellas, collections of short stories, and studies (including art criticism)^.1 And his famous book " Sacred Night "(or" Night of Destiny"), which won the most prestigious literary prize in Europe in 1987, was translated into Russian (1999), as well as his novel-parable"The Deepest Loneliness"*. This writer can do a lot: having already created a family saga about the drama of the difference between generations "fathers and children", and love novels, and ironic narratives about the "trials of friendship" in the early 2000s, he writes a gloomy, although artistically flawless picture of the political reality of Morocco in the early 2000s. (the novel "It's a blinding lack of light"), which caused a lot of noise in the press. Takhar Bendjelloun has been releasing one surprisingly frank book after another in the last decade, where he tells not only about the past, about the life of his mother, but also about the pain of the soul of his compatriots, who are forced to either "run" beyond their indescribable beauty of the country, or suffer the humiliation of their human dignity - unemployment, hopelessness of life, lack of purpose... But even where they are fleeing, where hospitality has turned out to be an "icy foreign land" - and there, as the writer testifies, no less bitterness and despair fall to their lot. However, the writer always gives his characters the right to choose. And he always listens sensitively to their sad stories-confessions about life. He does not teach, instruct, or "point the way," except to remind us - always, in all his books - that the Truth, the Truth of Life and its goals lie in the depths of the memory of a nation that has known not only defeat, but also victories in its long History.

A lot has been written about how emigrants - voluntary or involuntary exiles (in general, people who have "sailed" for a long time or forever from their native shores) dream about the "native side".: nostalgia as a real state of the human soul in literature "close" to us has existed since the time of the Greek poet Ovid... One of the latest creations of Moroccan writer Tahar Bendjelloun, the novel "Au pays"², continued this eternal theme. However, this work is interesting to us precisely because it unexpectedly turned the artist's work to the exact opposite problem raised by his previous novel "Partir" ("Leave!"), published in 2006 and in general, as always, mercilessly and boldly revealed the "sore wounds" of modern Morocco, one of which is mass emigration to the West (currently-to Spain).

The heroes of" Partir! " strongly sought to leave at all costs, run away without looking back, without a passport, in any way - whether in the hold of a ship, in its cargo compartment, tied to the bottom of a truck in order to somehow pass customs control, or by boat, or even by swimming, on a raft,

* For more information, see: Prozhogina S. V. Immigrant Stories, Moscow, IV RAS, 2002.

or, having obtained by hook or crook the coveted document and ticket, fly away forever, without thinking about the motherland, or about the past, or about anything or anyone, just to "Leave!", and there - even unemployment, even a brothel, even slavery (in any form!), - if only not to live the life that has clouded the present with a fog of hopelessness and longing for something "better"...

Here, in the novel"Home!" "it's the opposite. More precisely, this " Partir!", departure for a foreign land, already happened to the hero forty years ago, when he was twenty years old, healthy and strong, but without work, without a piece of bread, lived in a poor mountain remote village somewhere in the heart of Morocco, where people came in those distant 60s.all sorts of crooks recruit young people to work in France, which, as always, needed cheap labor. And after independence in 1956, Morocco was as full of unemployed people as it is today...

LA RETRAITE. TIME TO LOOK BACK

The hero of the novel, Mohammed, was lucky. He went to work at the famous Renault automobile plant (where the unions were strong and where the pay was "decent") on the assembly line, where he stood, an exemplary and submissive worker, for all the long four decades, although they passed like a dream, like one long night, and when he woke up, it was time retirement: "la retraite" is a word that is difficult to pronounce, not like experiencing a blow suddenly brought down by its weight, and maybe even a shot. In the very soul: without work, without its already familiar rhythm, which determined the rhythm of his very life in France, he simply felt like a lost person...

Mohammed, of course, had long been using his own small car (bought at the factory, on credit, at cost price, as his workers were supposed to), and he had an apartment, although on the outskirts, but once housed his large family, and there-even his own bedroom with his wife. And he was already used to his urban life, which once seemed to his wife, who had come to him from the village, from her homeland-"paradise" (after all, there was electricity here, and tap water flowed freely, and even an elevator...), and he had comrades at the factory, although he was not particularly happy about it. he did not like to "drive companies" (he did not drink, did not smoke, and, God forbid, never cheated on his wife, who, of course, was picked up by his parents in his early youth), and almost every year on vacation, usually in the summer, he went to his native village, when his children were still in school, with whom he was married. the whole family ³...

And suddenly - a sharp stop on this already established route of a man who was once abandoned at the end of the world and almost settled here in France, although he never felt like a "Frenchman", unlike many of his "rooted" compatriots and them, and their children, who were already born here and grew up and who had their own "legal rights" to be called "citizens of France", and even more simply - "French"... (Although, of course, the French themselves are "indigenous", they are unlikely to ever be considered as such: the ethnicity of immigrants in the second, and even in the third generation, and even in the third generation). their mestizo children from " mixed marriages "(which is not uncommon here) are, as they say, "present"...) But no matter how you call yourself, no matter how you affirm the current French "diversity" (diversité, as sociologists say), although everyone here speaks the same French language among themselves, and often even Maghreb children - without an accent, there is also alienation and "distance" in relations with "Muslim (especially Muslim) people.") immigrants "(despite all the modern" political correctness") make themselves felt. And especially when the burden of social problems accumulates, young people "from the immigrant environment" go out on the street and vent their anger, suddenly feeling their exclusion, marginality, and inequality...

...Mohammed never forgot that he was Moroccan. And not because he was "reminded"of it. (Much artistic evidence has been written by Maghreb - Moroccan, Algerian, and Tunisian writers about how this is happening in France. ⁴) Although, for the sake of justice, it should be noted that today the Maghrebites have already written a lot about how they are gradually integrating into French society and are even proud of their "specialness" - feeling both "cultural branches" at once, calling themselves seriously "French Arabs". No, Mohammed was not indignant, but he did not think about the "cultural baggage"purchased in France. And no "metamorphosis of identity" happened to him. He firmly knew that he was - first of all-a Muslim, a Moroccan, knew and remembered his roots well, preserved his customs, loved and protected his family as much as he could, and dreamed only of one thing: that his family, his children, his grandchildren would be united with him in his faith, in his way honoring the Laws of life bequeathed by his ancestors.

But the family slowly disintegrated: the children grew up, left the country.

or they were already preparing for a new life, having made their own choice. And he and his wife slowly grew old, but they never turned into "Frenchmen" in forty years, and therefore they were not given to understand that their children live in a completely different life space and time.

...And now, kneeling on the prayer mat with his face turned toward Mecca, Mohammed prayed to his God and thought about his life, and thought about what would happen to him and his family, and how he would continue to live on earth, when suddenly this unfortunate moment of Time came, called " Mecca ".La Retraite".

"...What do we do now? he mused. "Time to wake up. It's all over with the plant. I'm no longer fit to work on the assembly line... If I stay, I will be the only old worker in the history of this company who did not want to retire. They haven't been seen here before. One trade unionist has already congratulated him, saying that " now Mohammed can do whatever he wants, manage his time on his own...* Mohammed replied with a smile that yes, indeed, he would finally be happy to spend more time with his children, or even not notice how much they had grown up... And he firmly decided that now, after retiring, he would go for the first time, at least for a few months, to his native Morocco, to his village...

But not to be separated from your household or to leave your family, God forbid. That would be a diabolical solution. And in his tribe, people never did that. They didn't abandon their wives or their children. In fact, he'd never looked at another woman in his entire life. And he lowered his eyes shyly when someone started talking about his wife... And he hardly looked at his daughters, but he never dared to say "all sorts of sweet things" to them...

On the way home, I met an old friend. He immediately shouted: "It's great that you've retired! Now you're free! You're not working! Isn't that beautiful? They won't let you die here in France, like they did in your village, where you come from! They'll put you in a hospital if anything happens. You've earned it. Everything is fine. And there is no more racism here. And the hospital will treat you like everyone else. Free of charge at that. We must give France its due: everything is fine here, except for Le Pen**... Well, to hell with it! Let's celebrate, have a glass of lemonade!.."

...Mohammed then went further, he wanted to walk, without taking the bus, to get home, to reflect, to calm down a little. He walked with his eyes downcast, as if the doctors had ordered him to. He kept his hands in his pockets, clenched into fists. I was thinking about my children, and suddenly I felt that I had lost them completely. I was almost certain even. But he will still try to get them back to him. To my father's house. And only after a few years, all alone, will he suddenly wake up. And he will have the feeling that he has fallen into some abyss, or is staggering over the abyss, like a heavy bag of cement. Or stuffed with junk that no one needs... And that a dead rat has been lying in this bag for a long time and it stinks unbearably... He even imagined being thrown into a landfill along with other garbage, scrap metal, and rocks, turning it all into dust, oblivion... I suddenly felt like I didn't exist anymore. That no one thinks about him anymore, doesn't need his presence, doesn't need him at all anymore. It's all over. He is already on the edge of this long road of his life. And none of his older children will ever come to him, will not be near him to see him off on his last journey...

"SEVERED ROOTS"

...His son Murad worked in a supermarket somewhere. He married a Spanish woman, Maria, like him, who was born in France. Her parents had returned to their homes in Seville... Murad, a man of athletic build, could have had a career as a football player, but he had a weak heart. And he graduated from accounting courses, although he did a little bit of sports. But his main desire was to get out of his immigrant suburb, to live in a big city, in Paris, and not have anything to do with his former environment. From the first earnings, I gave my parents some money. His father thanked him, saying that he would save them for "building a house." "What kind of house is this?" my son was surprised. But then Mohammed did not answer him, did not tell him about his distant plans.

...Since Murad's marriage, he no longer went on vacation with his parents to his father's village in Morocco. He preferred to go on vacation with his wife with new relatives in Spain. And I kept asking myself, why do Spaniards live better than Moroccans?.. His wife, however, once told him that "it's all about religion," and Islam is to blame for everything...

This surprised Murad greatly, and he even flared up as if he were an imam of some sort, although he never observed Muslim customs himself... But he told Maria that " Islam alone cannot be the source of the backwardness of the people." Maria clarified: "Any religion opposes social evolution and modernization."

Jamila, the daughter of Mohammed, against the will of her parents, married an Italian. And Mohammed never saw her again. Even though he was in a lot of pain. "How can a non-Muslim suddenly enter their family?" This was forbidden by the Islamic religion-

* Here and further translated by Prozhogina S. V. by: Tahar Ben Jelloun. Au pays. P., 2009.

** Leader of the right-wing National Front party, strongly opposed to the integration of immigrants (author's note).

to her, and the daughter became a stranger to him. At first, he also tried to reason with her, but Jamila made loud scandals, because she was madly in love and refused to discuss it at all. And Mohammed couldn't stand any quarrels.

"This is my life, not yours! his daughter shouted at him. "And you can't stop me just because we're Muslims!" And in general, what kind of religion is it that allows a son to marry a Christian or a Jew, but forbids a daughter to do the same? No, Daddy, Mercy, and anyway, wake up and think: My life is my life, and I'll figure out what I need and what I don't need. It would be better for you to be treated, go to the hospital, you have been ill for a long time... we need to take care of ourselves!"

He would lower his head and leave with tears in his eyes. His wife tried to calm him down as best she could, saying that her daughter would not stand it for a long time and would quickly return home. And he kept saying it, a little puzzled: "What does it mean to be in love? Were you or I, "he asked his wife," ever in love?" I just don't know what it means. It's over, she's gone for the family!.. I don't want to know her! Him or us! He or I, her father! I'll delete her from my documents!"

And Jamila left her parents ' home. And no one else in the family said her name. And Mohammed could not forget the wound that had been inflicted on him.

His other two sons left school on their own and went to work far away in the provinces. Now only the youngest children, Rekiya and Nabil, are left in the family. And for the first time, Mohammed realized that no one had even consulted him on how to arrange his life. The sons decided everything themselves. One became a mechanic in a garage, the other worked in a candy store for his uncle. One is in the north, the other in the south of France. The apartment seemed too big now , and the family seemed to be falling apart.

But he still wanted to get everyone together and have a big celebration, even though he was sure that none of the children who had left would move from their place. Then he decided that he would inform them that he was seriously ill. This was the way out. And maybe then they will come to say goodbye to him in the hospital... But Mohammed was a superstitious man, and therefore he was afraid to anger God and play with death. "It is God's will." And all his fatherly love now turned to Rekiya, even though she had neither the time nor the inclination to comfort him. She studied hard all the time and studied well. And Mohammed said to himself: "At least, at least she will finish school normally and continue her education at the institute. She will train to be an animal doctor and come to his village to help with the household chores."

He still couldn't imagine and accept the fact that his children's lives no longer belonged to him, were slipping away from him. But even though he remembered Jamilee's angry shout of " What are you doing? Quite ill? So be treated!"), but he did not understand that to love his children, to want to be loved by them, to be a person close to them, to live next to them - this is his illness, and that he should be treated for it...

"I "need to be treated"! I must be very ill indeed. And what kind of authority do I have now! I've never made my children afraid of me before. I just hoped they wouldn't do something stupid themselves. They behaved normally, did not hooliganize on the streets, did not set cars on fire, did not break windows, did not break anything..." And when their immigrant neighborhoods became agitated like others, and riots broke out in the city, his children did not seem to approve of the actions of their friends and comrades... "They always wanted to be exemplary," Mohammed thought, " and they never turned to violence and did not participate in the organization of chaos..."

Nabil, his adopted son, a child who had been gravely ill since birth, daun, came up to comfort him. I took his hand, put it in mine, and kissed it. They looked at each other with understanding. Then we went to a cafe for ice cream. And in the evening, without saying a single word to Nabil, Mohammed hugged the boy tightly and began to cry. When Rekiya came home from school, he kissed her, packed his suitcase, and told his wife that he was going to his village in Morocco, "au pays", to "have a little rest"... "You will come to me later with them when the school holidays start."

TO YOURSELF

Mohammed took the train: his car, like the others, had been burned by young rioters during the autumn riots. And although their district was not among the most "unreliable", nevertheless, young people from the immigrant environment were in solidarity with those whose comrades the police, pursuing for "hooliganism", drove into the cab of a high-voltage transmission, where the guys burned down...* So young people everywhere on the outskirts started their own fire, and then all the cars burned indiscriminately. It was necessary to express my indignation somehow...

But Mohammed was not happy, because he had bought his little Renault himself, although at a discount, on credit, because he worked at this factory, but the money was too much for him. In general, he believed that all young people are poorly educated, do not understand where they belong and where they are strangers, do not know "their roots", are restless, do not want to study diligently, do not listen to their parents, do not understand that people like him, Mohammed, should not burn a car , because it is not allowed. it could be useful to him in the summer, when the whole family had to be taken on vacation across the country, to the sea, and then - on a ferry or in the hold of a steamer-to the coast of Morocco...

* Real events of 2006 (approx. author's note)

He didn't even get insurance, "he wasn't supposed to", because "riots on the streets organized by hooligans" were not included in the category of "insured events"... "These are all your people, from immigrants, instigators. You can deal with them yourself, " they told him. "Wait until they've calmed down, and then buy yourself a new car.".. Although, you know, they especially like to set fire to brand-new cars."..

Mohammed then left the insurance agency depressed, dejected. He wondered why the state didn't want to pay the poor people who were victims of all these riots. I looked around: there were no parked cars in sight - people were becoming more cautious. And he never imagined that the teenagers and young men he met every day in the elevator of his house could set fires on the streets of the city just because they had nothing to do, just out of boredom, just because they wanted to annoy France for their lack of demand. "But I," thought Mohammed, " I am not France, I am an ordinary father of a family, a simple man who now has to walk home. And I still have a long way to go in the future. It will be necessary to get somehow to his native village, and this is far away, across the sea... And in general, I didn't do anything bad to these young people, I never shouted at children running around on the street..."

Now he had to take a train to the coast, then a ferry across the sea, then take a bus, then take a taxi, and only then be back in his village. Or wait until Thursday and take a direct bus from Jeannevilliers, France, to Agadir, Morocco. Across two countries and by sea, by boat. But the trouble is, last year the driver of such a bus fell asleep at the wheel. The result: twenty people died. And how many wounded!.. No. Mohammed had no confidence in the bus route: "Let it be worse for me: I will go longer, but by train. Maybe I could get some sleep... I'll rest..."

For the first time in his entire immigrant life, Mohammed will not drive to the coast in his car. I bought a train ticket. He took his time.

Retirement [he called it in French by the mispronounceable word "la retraite"] meant time for him to be able to get on with his plan. Implement it. He tossed and turned in bed all night before leaving, thinking only of what he would do back home. Of course, there he will be able to unite all his children, "restore" family unity as a kind of integrity. Unite everyone around you. He was on the point of cursing "Madame France," who had warmed him for forty years, but who had robbed him of his children... I even forgot about my burnt-out car. But then I thought it more prudent to pray to Allah and ask Him "to bring everything back to normal." This meant the return of the children, even if they were married, to their father's House. At least let them visit him more often... They might even make the pilgrimage to Mecca with him one day. Why not? Everyone would circle around the Kaaba and pray... Is it crazy of him to dream of such a thing? Not at all. We would just do our Muslim duty together... It's not their land here in France. And on it, they had to think not about their sacred duty, but about something else, simpler, easier to implement: open their own pastry shop, for example...

It would be better if his son thought about how to make a trip to Morocco, cross this country from north to south, look at the land of his ancestors. After all, French tourists go there with their whole families? And nothing, happy... The country is so diverse, so beautiful. There is much to enjoy and do. Besides, Mohammed himself never traveled around his native land just out of curiosity. Every year for many years in a row from July 15 to August 28, I did the same thing: a car, a steamer, then a long and dusty road to the village, and that's all. It was his destiny, he thought. I never asked myself any questions or made any other plans. With the whole family (when the children were small) I was going and going. To yourself.

(The ending follows)

¹ For a bibliography of Takhar Bendjelloun's works and a study of his work in the 1960s-2000s, see Prozhogina S. V.: Maghreb, French-speaking writers of the 60s-70s (Moscow, 1980); For the shores of the Fatherland of Dalnoy... (Moscow, 1992); Between the Mistral and Sirocco (Moscow, 1998) From the Sahara to the Seine (Moscow, 2001); Immigrant stories (Moscow, YVES RAS, 2002); Women's portrait against the background of East and West (Moscow, 2006); Maghrebinsky novel (Moscow, 2007); Entered the Temple of Freedom (Moscow, 2008), etc.

^{Tahar Ben Jelloun.} 2 Au pays. P., 2009 (The title in the word "pays" retains the meaning of "small homeland", more precisely, "village", which in Russian is closest to "On the native side"; but you can, in contrast to the title of the writer's previous novel "Leave!", translate the title of this novel and like " Home!".

³ It should be noted that this" picture of life " of the North African immigrant is not embellished by the writer: over the past half - century, the appalling living conditions of Maghrebin emigrant workers in France, presented, for example, in the Moroccan novel "Goats" (1956), have certainly changed a lot. Decent social benefits, assistance in renting apartments, and the policy of" integration "towards immigrants, although constantly "stalling", nevertheless had an impact on the living standards of "foreign workers", although they did not eliminate many of the social and psychological problems of immigrants, whose cultural and legal differences are in the depths of the republican structure of France As a Nation-State, it is obvious and sometimes causes mass unrest and protests (see for details: Prozhogina S. V. The East in the West (Moscow, 2003); Those who entered the Temple of Freedom (Moscow, 2008), and many others).

⁴ About them, see: Prozhogina S. V. From the Sahara to the Seine, Moscow, 2001; Those who entered the Temple of Freedom, Moscow, 2008, et al.

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