Recently, Verso Books published a translation of Louisa Yousfi’s Rester barbare, giving it the English title In Defense of Barbaraism: Non-whites Against the Empire. Some would call this text a brutal, crude, even savage book. My response to that charge is simple. That is part of its intention. In Defense of Barbarism is a compact punch to the gut of western colonialism and its detritus. It turns the accusations and portrayals of the citizens of the global south as barbarians on its head, pointing the finger at the true barbarians; it takes the violence which is the essence of western colonialism and imperialism for its own and demands to be heard. It begins with the conclusion that violence is all that the colonizer, the imperialist understands. History tells us it is absolutely correct in this perception. Doesn’t every day bring news of another atrocity committed on Palestinians by the Israeli colonial project? Doesn’t the history of colonialism list its massacres and conquests as achievements worthy of praise instead of the disgust they should honestly evoke?
The book opens by acknowledging its specific inspiration. Algerian writer and revolutionary Kateb Racine, who in 1945 participated in anti-colonial protests that saw thousands of his fellow Algerians slaughtered by French colonial troops and their settler accomplices, said in a 1967 interview, “I feel like I have so many things to say that I’m better off not being too cultivated. I have to retain a certain barbarism, I need to remain a barbarian.” Without this element of “barbarism” one risks becoming just another human cultured in the ways of the powerful, the better off, the imperial envoy. Not only does one risk losing their roots should they end up “too cultivated,” they risk losing their soul. Those of us who insist on retaining some barbarism look around and watch teachers, writers, musicians, journalists and politicians shed their barbarian skin and the righteous anger it contains, molting into a neutered version of their previous self. It’s like Pat Boone covering a Little Richard song; the chord changes are the same and the lyrics match, but it doesn’t have a soul. Like the saying goes, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.
This book doesn’t offer solutions. It’s not a handbook for anti-imperialist organizing or an analysis of the nature of violence in the context of colonial and imperial occupation and oppression. It’s an angry cry, a scream to the rest of the earth and to the heavens above. It’s Bigger Thomas and 9-11. Yousfi writes regarding the latter, “’ Heaven will avenge us.” Her father had said this in response to something on the news. He had preceded those words with the statement, “The Americans are the worst thing to have happened on earth.” She continues, writing “The next day, when the attacks happened, it was: ‘I told you so!’” There’s no celebration in these words, just facts and a sense that the only justice for the mass murder done in the name of American freedom is that which must come from the heavens.
Hip-hop music is many things. It used to be known as rap. It seemed angrier then, but then again I don’t listen to it much—usually when I am hanging out with those younger than me who grew up with it as their soundtrack. That being said, I have my favorites: Public Enemy, KRS-One, NWA come to mind for this particular piece. I know it’s old school, but then again I’m old. Yousfi introduces her English-reading audience to a French rapper who goes by the name Booba. Among other topics, his lyrics reference colonialism, glorify money as his ticket to freedom; as the only real way left for folks like him to make it in the world they are born into. KRS-One’s query “What the f*ck am I supposed to do?” in his song “Love’s Gonna’ Get You (Material Love)”—a tale of a young man in the urban ruins who ends up slinging crack—exemplifies this sentiment born of frustration.
Of course, when all is said and done, being rich ain’t being free. It doesn’t matter what business you’re in—war, entertainment, fashion or capitalist politics. You might be able to express yourself individually and people can hear you because the business amplifies your sound, but you’re still a subject of the powerful who can cut you off whenever your entertainment fails to fill it’s diversionary function in society. Real freedom can’t be bought, not since the days of slavery, if even then.
Then again, it’s not as if the author endorses the often excessive glorification of money. It’s more like she’s acknowledging –like the rap artists themselves—that rich people seem to be able to do whatever the fuck they want and get away with it. That is a kind of freedom, albeit it’s mostly license. I get it. Look around, that’s the world we live in. When I lived on the streets, highways and low rent apartments, my friends and I talked about winning the lottery. We understood that under capitalism, the rich and the poor seem to have the most freedom; the former because they can buy whatever they want and the poor because they have no one to answer to as long as they stay away from the cops.
In Defense of Barbarism: Non-whites Against the Empire is a unique piece of work, one that raises questions and refuses succinct statements. It is designed to upset people and challenge their complacency, their coolness. If it puts the reader in the imperial zone on edge—especially the ones from the colonizer’s class and with the colonizer’s skin tone—it’s doing its job. If it makes any reader question the way they think things are, it’s doing its job. If it bores into your sensibilities and forces you to reconsider your potential future in the imperial paradigm, it’s doing its job. If it makes you get off your couch and into the streets against the genocide in Palestine, it’s doing its job. Read it, share it, learn from it.
© Counter Punch
