Listen to the article
After receiving a special mention from the Prix France-Liban de l’ADELF for her novel “La Maison d’Afrique” and another special mention from the Prix Phénix in 2019 for “Le Dérisoire Tremblement des femmes,” Salma Kojok was awarded on September 27th with the Prix Ethiophile 2023 for her novel “Noir Liban,” published by Erick Bonnier Editions. An interview with the President of the Choix Goncourt de l’Orient (Choice of the East).
After an African childhood and adolescence in Côte d’Ivoire, Salma Kojok earned a Ph.D. in history from the University of Nantes. Today, she lives between Burgundy and Lebanon. She teaches history at a high school and facilitates writing workshops at Saint-Joseph University.
Salma Kojok is the winner of the Prix Ethiophile 2023, which awards francophone literature from Africa or the Caribbean, and a finalist for the Arab Literature Prize from the Arab World Institute in Paris. Her latest book, “Noir Liban” (Black Lebanon), delves into themes of cultural and linguistic mixing, exile, discrimination, and the role of narrative in reconstructing the self, as well as male violence and tenderness. To grasp the nuances, Ici Beyrouth interviewed the author.
Every time you publish a book, it is well received by critics and earns accolades. This time, you’ve been awarded the Prix Ethiophile 2023 for “Noir Liban.” What does this distinction mean to you, and how does it enhance your journey?
This award is dear to me as it acknowledges the African part of my literary identity. African tales lulled my childhood, and I carry with me the Ivorian languages I heard: Dioula, Bété, Baoulé… Even though I don’t speak them, their musicality resonates within me. This intertwines with the other languages that inhabit me: French and Arabic. The award is also a wonderful recognition of my writing by a jury of writers and university professors passionate about literature and language.
Do you speak Arabic? What’s your mother tongue?
Yes, I do speak Arabic, but my writing language is French. Born in Côte d’Ivoire, Arabic wasn’t taught in schools at that time. I learned Arabic through private lessons my father insisted we take. I can read the news, but unfortunately, I don’t venture into writing in Arabic. My first language, passed down to me by my mother, is indeed French. She was born in Côte d’Ivoire. Her primary language is French.
Is “Noir Liban” autobiographical? How much of it is autofiction?
Maïmouna is a fictional character inspired by many stories shared with me. During my doctoral research on the Lebanese of French West Africa (FWA), I consulted the French colonization archives in Africa, and I also relied on oral tales from Lebanese Africans. Listening to people, I recorded, took notes, and reconstructed life stories, now materializing in my novels.
It’s challenging to differentiate between what’s real and what’s fictitious in the novel’s construction. What is factual is the historical context and locations: Abidjan, the Treichville house where I grew up (portrayed in the novel), and Beirut’s locations that form the backdrop for Maïmouna’s stories shared with Youssef during their city strolls. Maïmouna’s character combines several individuals I know, stories of Lebanese-Ivorian children born in Côte d’Ivoire but raised in Lebanon.
With this novel, I wanted to explore the reconstruction of a society emerging from prolonged warfare. I chose a character caught between two cultures. What’s also real and poignant is the story of Salifou, a black boy who was beaten for taking a banana from Treichville’s market to satisfy his hunger. Memories of his cries still haunt me and form the foundation of this novel’s inspiration. Frantz Fanon’s “Peau noire, masques blancs” (Black Skin, White Masks) influenced my writing process, with its ideas permeating Maïmouna’s story.
The title “Noir Liban” might suggest it’s about Lebanon’s successive wars and crises, but it delves into racial discrimination, where black individuals are sometimes viewed as an inferior race, synonymous with “darkness.” It probes the origins of this aversion, sometimes expressed violently. What are your thoughts?
Indeed, the title holds ambiguity and is an intended oxymoron, embodying the historical weight of “Noir” (Black) and “Liban” (Lebanon). In Semitic languages, Lebanon denotes the white snow covering its mountains. My interest was in juxtaposing Lebanon, which evokes whiteness, with blackness. The book questions what it means to be black in Lebanon. It’s hard to determine what’s white and black based solely on skin color. At what point is one considered black? By just looking at the skin of certain Lebanese arms, one might classify them as black, although they might not be of African origin. This is Maïmouna’s experience, who carries the stigma of black skin, which isn’t always negative. In Lebanon, black signifies mourning, but Lebanese women also wear it at celebrations, symbolizing elegance. This title’s polysemy intrigued me.
Does the title also allude to the Lebanese women shrouded head-to-toe in black abayas, veils, or niqabs?
No, “Noir Liban” isn’t linked to that reality. For a comprehensive understanding of the color black’s significance, one might refer to Michel Pastoureau’s book “Noir, histoire d’une couleur” (Black: The History of a Color), which offers a socio-historical analysis showing that black hasn’t always been tied to sadness or death. When I write, I’m neither Muslim, Shiite, Maronite, Ivorian, Lebanese, female, male, white, nor black. Yet, I am all these characters combined. Such is the beautiful ambiguity of literature.
The novel also delves into various religious denominations and issues related to sexual identity. Did you not fear that by juggling multiple themes, the sharpness of one might be compromised for the sake of another?
The character and story of Maïmouna led me to this complexity. Discrimination against her isn’t solely based on her skin color; it also relates to her multiple identities as a woman and a citizen of Lebanon recovering from war, especially as she engages in the process of social rebuilding. It was evident for me to address the themes of self-reconstruction and the architectural rebuilding of the country, of Beirut in wartime memories, and the challenges experienced in the protagonist’s personal life.
Given the various forms of discrimination in Lebanon, such as religious, social, and those related to sexual identity, shouldn’t Maïmouna have liberated herself further? She empathizes with all kinds of segregation. Yet she remains human with her flaws, shortcomings, and personal traumas. Additionally, the matter of individual liberation is quite intricate. I leave it to the reader to interpret and offer their perspective.
Indeed, the ending belongs to the fantasy genre, while the rest alternates between the dramatic and the tragic.
The ending is open-ended. There’s both the possibility of death and the resurgence of life. I lean toward hope, for alongside Maïmouna is someone who takes an interest in her, who is willing to recount her story, who welcomes her voice. This approach mirrors my method of working, embracing others’ voices, bearing them, and echoing them in the literary field.
We also notice that it’s a novel about male violence and abandonment, contrasted with female generosity and tenderness, like the figures of Maïmouna’s mother and grandmother.
I wouldn’t be so definitive, as I feel there’s also tenderness in some male characters, particularly Youssef, in how he establishes trust with Maïmouna to craft her narrative. Admittedly, from a societal standpoint, the men in Maïmouna’s life are indoctrinated with notions of virility associated with aggressiveness. However, male violence toward women is fairly universal.
Why did you opt for the chapter structure where each one ends with a key sentence that becomes the title of the next chapter?
This was something that emerged during the writing process. I embarked on a literary experiment and found it intriguing to reintroduce a sentence that concludes a chapter in another context. Suddenly, it carries new vitality, a different meaning, and allows me to introduce new chapters, paying close attention to every word. This is part of my writing craft: the attention to the musicality of sentences and the placement of every word, like an artisan would with their material. Writing, for me, is an artisanal endeavor, and I enjoy letting my characters (and the words) guide me, not always knowing my exact destination, and experimenting with different shades, shapes, and rhythms.
