Lettre n° 13 | Muses au masculin

Driss Chraïbi inaltérablement

libre et libertaire

Mustapha Saha

Sociologue, poète, artiste peintre

© Crédit photo : Mustapha Saha, Portrait de Driss Chraïbi, peinture sur toile, 100 X 81 cm,

photographie par Élisabeth Bouillot-Saha

Contexte

Triste constat. En ce dixième anniversaire de la disparition de Driss Chraïbi (1926-2007), l’écrivain rebelle n’aura eu aucun hommage à la hauteur de son œuvre planétaire.

Le Salon du Livre de Paris, où le Maroc était l’invité d’honneur, a été une belle opportunité historique, piteusement gâchée par l’incompétence des organisateurs. Quelques colloques universitaires, marqués par leur élitiste confidentialité, au lieu d’amender cette pensée vivante, de fertiliser ses possibles inexplorés, de la propulser dans son devenir fécondateur, l’ont fossilisée dans la nébulosité des sempiternelles casuistiques. L’irrécupérable intelligence bute toujours sur l’indigente fanfaronnade culturelle. Je m’attendais, dans son propre pays, à une célébration institutionnelle qui l’aurait définitivement consacré comme inamovible bannière des lettres marocaines, comme inextinguible chandelle pour les générations futures. J’escomptais une initiative audacieuse d’édition de ses œuvres complètes enrichissant pour toujours les bibliothèques référentielles. Ses livres régénérateurs de la langue matricielle et de la littérature diverselle demeurent largement méconnus dans leur argile première. S’estompent encore une fois dans l’ambiante équivocité les inaltérables lumières.

Un auteur atypique

La trajectoire iconoclaste de Driss Chraïbi, convulsée, à chaque détour, par l’ironie socratique, déboussole les paramètres scientifiques, déroute les codifications académiques, déjoue, avec malice, les analyses critiques. Une littérature d’exil, creusant ses empreintes hors sentiers battus. Un capharnaüm de romances aléatoires, d’aventures homériques, de confessions épuratoires, de visions poétiques, de fulgurances prémonitoires, d’envolées mystiques, d’anecdotes sublimatoires, d’exultations fantasmagoriques, d’indignations fulminatoires, de déclamations catégoriques, d’investigations probatoires, de lucidités anthropologiques. Une quête perpétuelle d’inaccessibles rivages, l’imaginaire sans entraves pour unique territoire. Le donquichottiste assumé taquine l’impossible, l’œil rivé sur l’imprévisible. L’œuvre déclinée par éclats en puzzle chaotique, quand elle est saisie avec le recul panoramique, présente cependant une imposante cohérence esthétique, thématique, philosophique. L’auteur atypique, cultivant, toute sa vie, une marginalité savante, est entré dans l’histoire littéraire par la porte de traverse.

Dans sa vingtaine d’ouvrages, les audaces stylistiques, sous syntaxe classique, entraînent indifféremment le lecteur dans un flux et reflux aphoristique, où la saillie caustique guette au creux de chaque vague narrative. Les descriptions nostalgiques, les confessions pudiques, les déflexions mélancoliques, cachent immanquablement, dans leurs plis et leurs replis, d’inattendues réfutations sarcastiques. Dès que plume se montre prodigue d’épanchement romantique, le doute méthodique la rattrape. Le corps à corps de l’auteur avec l’inspecteur Ali, son jumeau golémique, vociférateur de vérités profondes, relève de la bataille épique. Chraïbi ne reconnaît que son double en digne interlocuteur. L’altruiste autistique, sans cesse désaxé par le cataphote sociétal, puise, au plus profond de ses meurtrissures, matière d’écriture. Le burlesque Inspecteur Ali, insoupçonnable perceur d’énigmes, se porte à son secours en pleine panne d’inspiration, endosse l’habit guignolesque des spécialistes du camouflage, couvre de son insolence la reconquête anxieuse de la terre natale, le dialogue rocambolesque des mœurs orientales et des mentalités occidentales, la dénonciation du phallocentrisme chicaneur, avant de liquider, au bout de six enquêtes désopilantes, son propre auteur.

Un esprit libre et libertaire

Tout au long d’une existence de risques et de doux fracas, Driss Chraïbi se constitue ses propres références éthiques, ses contremarques symboliques, ses balises sémantiques, reléguant la recherche désespérante et chimérique d’une identité culturelle aux armoires d’apothicaire. Peut-on se réduire à une étiquette langagière en guise de raison d’être ? La plume réfractaire aux dirigismes, rétive aux autoritarismes, revêche aux chauvinismes, cultive studieusement, autodérision en bandoulière, l’art du contre-pied, de la parade beuglante, de la répartie cinglante, et toutes les armes de tendre goguenardise des sensibilités à fleur de peau. Une sensibilité fiévreuse qui ne supporte que l’intime obscurité. La lumière se trouve au fond du puits.

Le chroniqueur désabusé des temps douloureux n’est jamais en quête de reconnaissance publique, la notoriété stimulatrice lui ayant été acquise dès son premier livre « Le Passé simple », descente identificatoire dans l’enfer de l’éducation castratrice, traversée purificatoire de l’archaïque purgatoire, genèse de la désobéissance épidermique. L’étudiant rebelle, le libertaire spontané, forge, par effraction, sa personnalité sociale dans la dissidence oedipienne, dans l’antagonisme frontal avec le père théocratique, l’affranchissement des cadènes matérialistes, l’émancipation des valeurs obscurantistes, la condamnation définitive des pesanteurs religieuses, des inégalités coutumières, des asservissements sexistes. Il brise instinctivement les loquets rouillés de l’identité séculaire, stérilisatrice de la diversité régénératrice. Il transcende, par l’écriture, l’appartenance à une double culture et surmonte, par la transgression des tabous stéréotypés, la schizophrénie récurrente des écrivains francophones.

Cette terre natale se drape de toilettes attractives, tantôt traditionnalistes, tantôt modernistes, se calfeutre dans son décorum touristique, étouffe, sous rituels immuables, ses luttes intestines. Regard implacable de l’autre rive, détecteur des tartufferies enturbannées. Dans « Succession ouverte », les funérailles du patriarche révèlent le vieux monde en décomposition, la nébuleuse inextricable des nomenclatures oppressives, la postérité venimeuse de l’hydre vampirique. La pensée libre butte sur les barrières physiques et métaphysiques, les sédimentations historiques, les œillères héréditaires. « L’Homme du livre » remonte « La Mère du printemps » jusqu’à la source arabique pour puiser, dans la révélation prophétique, l’espérance d’une nouvelle Andalousie, creuset d’une civilisation plurale et diversitaire.

Un écrivain d’avenir

Des chercheurs, amateurs des contextualisations fossilisatrices, s’évertuent d’autopsier l’œuvre de Driss Charaïbi comme un cadavre exquis, avant de l’enfermer dans un sarcophage de mausolée, oubliant, au passage, que sa littérature sacrilège creuse toujours son sillon démystificateur dans les réalités présentes. Dans la condescendance de la société coloniale, son livre-brûlot « Les Boucs », sur les damnés de l’immigration, dépouillés de leur amour-propre et de leur respectabilité, parqués dans des baraquements sordides, comme aujourd’hui leurs descendants dans les cités d’exclusion, dévoile l’intériorisation mentale de la dépendance aliénatoire et de la servitude volontaire. Critique incisive de l’idéologie d’intégration, des théories d’inclusion, légitimations légalistes de l’ostracisme programmé, et de la victimisation atavique, reproductrice du complexe de colonisé. Ces africains et maghrébins contraints de s’expatrier massivement pour se remettre à la solde de leurs anciens dominateurs sont bel et bien une factualité persistante. « L’Âne » pressent la faillite chronique des indépendances africaines, le développement du sous-développement des riches territoires livrés aux oligarchies corrompues. L’observateur des dérives politiques, le diagnostiqueur des impasses sociétales, l’explorateur des labyrinthes interculturels, demeure d’une actualité mordante.*

*Ce texte est sélectionné pour paraître dans un de nos numéros imprimés de 2018, © MS.

***

Pour citer ce texte

Mustapha Saha (texte et dessin), « Driss Chraïbi inaltérablement libre et libertaire », photographie par Élisabeth Bouillot-Saha, Le Pan poétique des muses|Revue féministe, internationale & multilingue de poésie entre théories & pratiques : Lettre n°13, mis en ligne le 21 janvier 2018. Url : http://www.pandesmuses.fr/2018/1/driss-chraibi

© Tous droits réservés                            Retour au sommaire ▼

Letter n°13 | Interviews/Lettre n°13 | Entretiens

Interview with Ibrahim Honjo

Tatjana Debeljački

© Photo credit/Crédit photo :  Ibrahim Honjo

Tatjana Debeljački – Generally speaking, what advice would you give us about author’s temptation ? Please provide an example of « what not to do ? »

Ibrahim Honjo – When writing, authors encounter a variety of temptations that can be helpful in writing or which disorient the author, taking him/her in the opposite direction. In any case, we need to write the way we feel at that moment so that we do not to lose the idea and the coming thoughts and get lost in the idea itself. What we do not write down is lost. This is a « luxury » which an author cannot and should not allow to happen.

Everything we write needs to be left for some time to « age » and then it has to be re-done from time to time and improved. Personally, I work for 4-5 years on every book of poems. This means that I return to each poem several times as well as to each book as a whole, until I make sure that it is how I want it. Even so, when the book sees the light of day, I discover that I did not write something in that period the way I would write it today. That is why a poem is never finished, although it is a reflection of the moment in which it was created.

Each poem must have a message and a lesson. You do not need to write a poem so that everything fits well, and then the readers would be right to ask what the poet wanted to say. A poem must not be wonderful to the ear and empty in the spirit.

TD – Balance of scenery of desire and ambition, beauty secret of success ?

IH – Desire is not a direct ruler of thought. An author wants and tends to write as good a poem as possible, to write and publish a book that readers will be happy to read. Some succeed in doing so, some less, and there are those who fail. The path to success does not depend only on an author, although it is the basis, but also on a publisher who recognizes the quality and who is willing to invest money in marketing that work, because without good marketing there is no success. In my opinion, there are no other  special secrets of success. There are a number of subjective and objective circumstances. Today, the situation in the publishing industry is significantly different than it was 20 years ago. More and more publishers tend to make authors invest in their own work. The number of traditional publishers is decreasing from day to day. This led to hyper production. Books are more and more often self-published. We should not even talk about quality. Many books are published only because their authors thought it would make them rich, and in reality, only their publishers get rich, promoting self-publishing with the high cost of services paid by many authors who are trying to publish a book hoping that they will earn a lot of money. The real truth is that they usually lose even ten thousand dollars in their publishing ventures. In the end, they realize that there is no profit, but that it's still a nice feeling to have their own printed work in their hands. My personal ambition is to write and write. If one of them is published by a publisher someday, because my work is good and useful for other people, then it is a success. Therefore, the secret of success is in the high-quality educational work and the publisher's commitment to launching exactly this work into life.

TD – Creation aims to leave a mark, the mark of faith in people and humanity, and this faith does not leave you ?

IH – Of course, creativity is not the only purpose on its own. An author seeks his work to live in people and with people as long as possible, to leave a mark on the time in which the author lives. An author believes in what he offers to the readers of his work. He lives with this faith, but often during this author's life his/her work is not noticed nor accepted by a broader circle of the reading audience. Many creations become famous after the death of an author, and some never, meaning that some authors failed to leave the desired mark on people as a gift. And yet they died believing in people and humanity and hoping that someday, somebody would still discover the value of their creation and give it life.

TD – Do you express ease of writing, the dominance of passion and culmination ?

IH – It is not easy to write in spite of the passion that the author feels in his writing. Writing is not just arranging letters, words, verses and sentences into one whole. Writing is the lust for the love of creation, which fills every pore of author’s body. It is a combination of feelings and life pictures that need to be woven into a creation which is acceptable primarily to the author himself, and to readers, framing the passion of writing in order to reach the culmination we strive for, and reach our own imaginary citadel.

TD – On the wings of the intimate, radiant empires remain in the curiosity of an author ?

IH – An author’s curiosity has no limits. It differs from author to author. Every author has his/her own dazzling intimate empire in which he/she closes themselves trying to extract the tiniest and most beautiful threads and give them to readers, the way he/she feels and experiences it. How much the author will succeed in this depends on his/her creative abilities and knowledge.

TD – Do you feel that your writing process is continually evolving, or have you found a way for your memory to always readily work for you ?

IH – It is quite normal for the writing process to constantly evolve. Following my literary path, I noticed the progress of my creations. By writing, we actually learn to write and develop the writing process. This process starts with the first written verses or sentences and never stops as long as the author creates. Personally, I permanently seek and strive to perfect this process by nurturing such memory and keeping it ready to always be in line with my creativity.

TD – All poets were a little scared with insomnia in them ?

IH – I would rather say that poets are afraid of themselves in their mind and that it causes insomnia that causes fear of a fall, but sometimes it helps them to write and sometimes it stops them. It is a fear of flying in the orbit of words, in which flying gets us to the final destination, a poem in which a poet can easily trip over his own words and break his wings if he does not ground himself/herself in time. So, we should know how to fly and ground ourselves on time.

TD – Who is Ibrahim Honjo, in a civilizational and also in the artistic sense of consciousness and conscience ?

IH – Ibrahim Honjo is in every way an ordinary man who persistently tries to describe himself in this world and this world in him through personal experiences and the experiences of others. He is a man who loves people and humanity regardless of skin color, nationality and faith. A man who knows how to love and who strives for the idea that love rules the world or as the Bible says to love your neighbour and even your enemies. In my work, the theme is dominantly love, and love is also sprinkled in every poem regardless of the theme of them poem. In 2010, I created a simple formula for love LOVE + LOVE = LOVE. Unfortunately, I do not believe that this formula will come to life because there are many more people who cultivate hatred, which is not a characteristic of poets. A poet's heart is wrapped in love, so I can rightly say that poets are angels of love and they are in large numbers.

TD – What inspires you most when writing ?

IH – A poem is a description of a single moment that awakens by inspiration. The first written thought colours the moment of inspiration with different colors that I arrange according to shades and their similarities, interweaving them in poems. These shades have an inspirational character and lead me through the moment. Inspiration is not one-sided and it's not the same with writing all poems. These shades are always different and they always move the world inside me, leaving me to the world in which I live.

TD – Have you ever been tempted to return and change your potential ?

IH – The ability to create is different from poem to poem. Sometimes it is stronger, sometimes weaker, which depends on the strength of the inspiration caused by the accumulation of emotions. Inspiration depends on the motivation to write something, and motivation by the very subject that spontaneously imposed itself on me, or it is a product of a desire to write a poem about it or to write something else. Certainly, I return to my writing from time to time, and I try to change everything to the best of my ability.

TD – Do you enjoy with all senses with experience and passions of the gift ?

IH – My gift of writing is innate. When I discovered this gift as a high school student, I began to nurture and develop it. Indeed, with every pore of my being, I enjoy turning my experience into a poem or some other creative form (story, aphorism, novel, painting, photography, sculpture), bringing all the passion of writing, and sharing this experience with people unselfishly. My greatest pleasure is when a reader writes a message to me and says that my poem « opened » his or her eyes and helped him or her to understand and explain some things that were not entirely clear and acceptable. It's a really wonderful feeling and a great reward.

TD – What can we expect from you in the near future on the creative agenda?

IH – I have never specifically occupied myself with the future nor planned it because it is unpredictable. I'm trying to be objective and grounded, to remain in the framework of this day. Today is reality because it is here and it marks the time of the present. The future is close or distant, uncertain and unpredictable. It is just like a ray in my subconscious, as something that will come and become today. Desires are closely linked with today and with the future, even more with the future.

In the coming period I want to publish several books of poetry, a book of aphorisms, short stories and thoughts, a novel, « Some other pain and another laughter », to finish writing and publish my novel « Capitalism Yes, but ... » and to re-write and re-publish my autobiography, which was published in 2011by one of the largest American publishers, « Publish America. »

Gratitude to the gentleman with nice manners for an interview. Thank you all for giving me the opportunity to share this with the public.

***

Some poems by/quelques poèmes par Ibrahim Honjo

Ode to your eyes

In your eyes the color of blue pearl, Rebecca

red fish swim as rubies

all the way from Jerusalem

this landscape reminds me of

a plantation of lilies in the Netherlands

in your eyes I sometimes see

the promise of a million cracked open skies

in them resting subtle honesty

and dormant sparks of love

that I want to flare up in a blaze of passion

in your eyes waves of the Adriatic waters

in them the white Krka waterfalls

in them the waters of the Danube and Sava reflect

in them, the Plitvice Lakes

Atlantic, Pacific and the mighty Niagara Falls

your eyes exude a propagated smile

the morning dew and summer rain

illuminating the universe

and the infinite rainbows embracing the universe

from your eyes a secret like a bird will rush out

I feel, there will be a cloudburst soon

and I will not be there to stop it

and spare your eyes from filling with tears Rebecca

all this will remain a big secret

upon which the birds daydream in their cages

They dream of your eyes, Rebecca

***

Way to Eden

I will knit a scarf for you

from the wind

and string together

a necklace of haze

I'll make bracelets

of nocturnal shadows

I'll make you a bed

of the moon phase

cover you with my glances

and wake you up in the sun's rays

I'll wash you with drops of dew

from the most beautiful and aromatic flowers

I'll wrap you in the tender rhapsody

of my glistening silhouette

we will walk in fervent embrace

from here to Eden

***

Dreams the changed Ana 

I'll trick you and take you to the North Pole, Ana

there I will look after you as little drops of water in my palm

there I'll warm you up with love

I'll make the most beautiful city of ice in all colors for us

and decorate it with crystal dreams

I will keep you away from all spells and all earthly evils

I'll build you a big ice aquarium

with a million blue fish and a  million pearl shells

I'll make sleds from carved ice crystals

and drag them around the North Pole

up to the big ice star

while you dream our dreams

and hide us in them secretly

all will envy us that we have found shelter

for the two of us in unfulfilled dreams

coming true in unrationed bites of Mahalla

that always surprise

the playpen with large ice walls

that fire cannot melt

we'll sail on ice floes

that float toward Newfoundland

we'll play with penguins all night long

and eat fresh sea fruits

I will host the greatest earthly Ball

in your honor

once a month

we will dance with dolphins

and whisper to them the origin of life

in our undefined world

we will show them how we kiss each other

until the ice under our feet becomes

beautiful crystal figurines

Ana, if you dream about me tonight

pretend I'm holding you in my arms and kissing you

on our yacht of blue ice crystals

while the sun goes down in your heart

I'll bring you a handful of the most beautiful diamonds

hidden deep in the waters of Antarctica

and I will make the most unusual string of pearls for you

and dress your beautiful neck vividly

as I once did with oxeye daisies

I'll teach you how easy it is to love me

in all seasons

in all the constellations

Ana you know I do not lie to you

Keep hiding in your dream…

the one I enjoy most

and have a beautiful life

because I cannot hide from it

cannot protect against all Mahalla’s dangers

life is too short to allow it to dissipate around Mahalla

but those dreams with you are something else

something that could outlive even myself

***

The oldest cypress in Mahalla

I will not talk about the bey Karađoz

nor of the fountains in my backyard

I'll show you the oldest cypress in the world

we will sit and kiss at his roots

branched in all possible directions

we will hide in our glances

Cicadas will sing their famous song to us

we'll listen and learn the history written in stone

others will invent it and retell it

the way it should sound

right for them

altering facts about everything

do not be surprised if they accuse us

of treason and declare us heretics

continue to love me

the fact is

our cypress is strong and steady

I wish you and I to be like the cypress

and following consistently

united we’d grow tall

to reach the stars

***

Legend about my grandfather

My grandfather, whom I do not remember

has never had a fiddle

has never seen a piano

yet he played both at the same time

with a pitchfork he played the violin

with a hoe he chose the notes on the piano

he played better than Mozart and Beethoven

while playing he enjoyed invisible walls

in an imaginary castle

with him African and South American parrots were singing

deer and rattlesnakes were dancing the waltz

and Native Americans synchronized smoke signal rhythms

with each note

spreading peace on the planet

he taught his four hundred goats and three hundred sheep

to sing in the choir

when he played love songs

that he composed

picking pumpkins in the fall

and making brandy the first days of winter

about my grandfather the legend said

bears and lions smoked the peace pipe

and drank water from the same source

my grandfather was the first minstrel in Mahalla

also the first pianist and violinist

he played the violin that he made

out of the one maple tree that grew in front of our house

just to keep alive peace on the planet

so he made the biggest bridge between continents

that no one has ever used out of spite

they say when my grandfather shouted

from the top of the mountain

the world’s army lined up in an instant

and paid respect to those who they murdered

in sign of support, my grandfather hugged his sweetheart

and kissed her until the apples didn't bloom in Mahalla

and peace with peace did not fertilize in peace

***

Inferno

They danced, ate, drank, sang

I broke my own hands

broke my own feet

plucked my hair and ears

scratched my face

broke everything what was mine

eventually, I gouged my eyes out

took out my heart

and threw it in front of raging beasts

and allowed it to sweeten

I gave them all my insane blood

quenched their thirst

they were greedy and dirty

as small starving children

after a chocolate dessert

and it wasn’t enough to them

they wanted my bones too

naked and without a soul

that part of me was strong

and laughed at their greed

insanely, creepy in one single cry

Mahalla has turned into an echo

beasts have turned into balls

rolled down side streets

my skeleton has become an unruly scarecrow

so I stopped this madness

Mahalla was finally breathing more easily

and I peacefully drifted away to sleep

then woke up from this horror

and declared it Honjo’s inferno

***

To quote this poetic interview /Pour citer cet entretien poétique

Tatjana Debeljački, « Interview with Ibrahim Honjo », Le Pan poétique des muses|Revue féministe, internationale & multilingue de poésie entre théories & pratiques : Lettre n°13, mis en ligne le 16 janvier 2018. Url : http://www.pandesmuses.fr/2018/1/ibrahim-honjo

© All rights reserved                                        To the overview ▼

© Tous droits réservés                                  Retour au sommaire ▼