That is why men of the left stand before you today to serve a cause that at first sight might seem to have nothing to do with their political opinions. I hope that by now you are as convinced as we are that the opposite is true. Everything alive is ours. Politics is made for men, not men for politics. Mediterranean men need a Mediterranean politics. We do not want to live by myths. We live in a world of violence and death, in which there is no room for hope. But perhaps there is room for civilization in the true sense of the word, civilization that places truth above myth, life before dreams. And that civilization has nothing to do with hope. In it, man lives by truths.4
The people of the West must back this overall effort. In an international framework, it can be done. If each of us consents to do a modest bit of work in his or her own sphere, country, or province, success is not far away. We know our goal, our limits, and our possibilities. We have only to open our eyes to see what needs to be done: we must make people understand that culture makes sense only when it serves life and that mind cannot be the enemy of man. Just as the Mediterranean sun is the same for everyone, the fruits of human intelligence must be shared by all and not become a source of conflict and murder.
Is a new Mediterranean culture consistent with our social ideal possible? Yes, but it is up to us, and to you, to help bring it about.
1. Inaugural lecture, Maison de la Culture, February 8, 1937. Pléiade, vol. 1.
2. Charles Maurras (1868–1952), a leader of the nationalist Action Française movement who supported Mussolini and the Italian fascist takeover of Ethiopia.—Trans.
3. Walter Audisio (1909–1973), an Italian Communist leader.—Trans.
4. I am speaking of a new civilization, not of progress within an existing civilization. It would be too risky to play with the dangerous toy known as Progress.
Men Stricken from the Rolls of Humanity
57 Prisoners Left Algeria Yesterday for the Penal Colony
DECEMBER 1, 1938
Le Martinière, commonly known as “the white ship,” is actually gray. Long and spacious at 3,871 tons, it seems remarkably empty, because the only cargo in its hold does not take up much room. Actually, it takes up only as much room as has been set aside for it, which is not much.
The ship arrived on Tuesday at 10 o’clock, delayed by a storm in the Atlantic, and wind and rain accompanied its entry into the port of Algiers. On deck were 55 crew members and 41 passengers (guards on their way back to the penal colony). In the hold were 609 prisoners from Saint-Martin-de-Ré.
Moored at the red light, Le Martinière bobs up and down on the channel eddies, facing the city, which is barely visible through the veil of rain. The guards lean into the wind as they walk, hands in their leather belts, from which hang large service revolvers. Yet the deck seems deserted, perhaps because of the odor of solitude and despair that hangs about the passageways, where not a soul moves or cracks a joke. But perhaps even more because of the living presence, sinister and hopeless, that one senses beneath the planking.
Nothing can change this feeling, and the cleanliness of the ship, the crispness of the officers’ uniforms, and the greetings of the guards struggle in vain to dispel the sense of abandonment that hangs about the windswept decks of this nearly deserted ship. No flotilla of small craft welcomes this vessel with the symphony of foghorns that greets other arrivals.
A Floating Prison
I head for a companionway that leads down into a hold watched by an armed guard. While exchanging a few words with him, I listen to the hoarse, muffled sound that rises intermittently from the depths of the hold, a respiration that is somehow not human. Down there are the prisoners.
When I peer into the hold, all I see is darkness, from which emerge the rungs of the companionway. At the bottom I must stop to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Gradually I am able to make out the reflections from bowls and trays lined up in the middle of the hold, then the gleam of a rifle that advances toward me with another guard, and finally, along the sides of the ship, shiny bars from which hands soon emerge.
The noise I had heard from above has ceased. Now I see that the hold is rectangular, and the bars on each side mark out two cages, each 10 meters long by 5 meters wide.
One of the guards tells me that each of these cages holds between 90 and 100 prisoners. On each side of the ship are four portholes, but they are set very high, and the light they admit illuminates the center of the hold, leaving the prisoners in the shadows, so that it is hard to see their faces.
In the ceiling of each cage is a circular inlet that is attached to a control valve, presently closed. I learn that in case of a riot, each outlet is capable of spewing steam onto the prisoners. At the far end of the hold, between the cages, are two small, stout doors. These give access to two cells barely one square meter each in size, in which prisoners can be placed for punishment.
The ship rolls a bit, so that the light shifts from one cage to the other. One particularly large swell allows me at last to glimpse the prisoners. As the ship rolls, the light abandons them, then returns, only to leave them once again in darkness. It takes me a while to make out human beings in this faceless, breathing, murmuring mass.
Now the light returns, and I look to their faces for signs of resemblance with the world I know. But the night of the hold engulfs them again, and again they are nothing to me but a nameless and troubling shadow.
I head back up the companionway. I do not turn around. I walk the length of the deck and then head down into the rear hold. It is better lit. The cages are smaller. One of them is empty, awaiting the prisoners who will board this afternoon.
In the other cage men sit or hang on the bars. Some are watching me. Some laugh and poke at one another with their elbows, while others stare at me expressionlessly, and still others stare silently at their hands. I see three Arabs hanging from a porthole, trying to catch a glimpse of Algiers. For their comrades, this is a foreign land in what has become a foreign world, but these three, peering through the rain, are still searching for a part of themselves. I am not proud of my presence in this place.
My raincoat is wet, and I know only too well what it brings these men: the smell of a world in which people run free and can feel the wind in their faces. This is the last thing to bring to a place like this. I leave the hold, knowing that there are others, other hands on the bars, other expressionless stares. But I’ve had enough. As I leave, one of the men asks me in Arabic for a cigarette. I know that it’s against the rules. But what a ridiculous response that would be to a man who is simply asking for a sign of fellow-feeling, a human gesture. I do not answer.
The Boarding
I have not yet seen all I came to see, but how can I wait for additional prisoners to board without being overwhelmed by disgust? At noon, I see troops lining up on Amiral-Mouchez wharf, off in the distance. It is raining. Then the skies clear, only to darken again a short while later. The wind and the rain return.
At 2:55, busloads of prisoners and police empty onto the narrow road. No doubt it was unconscious irony that chose three CFRA buses to transport these men, many of whom had probably ridden those same buses in the past. Back then, however, there were stops, and at those stops, one could get off. Today, there is only one stop, at land’s end, a few steps from the water’s edge, where the departing prisoners’ homeland ends.
Brief orders are given. Wasting no time, the guards load the men onto a barge. The rain, which has been falling steadily, now lets up, and a vast rainbow forms in the mist above our heads. Not one of the 57 prisoners crouching in the middle of the barge raises his head. They sit in their coarsely woven uniforms, pull their covers around them, and stare at their duffel bags. The guards surround them, and the barge, towed by a tugboat, shudders as it pulls away from the dock. The rain resumes.
Throughout the crossing, the men keep their heads down. Not one of them looks toward Le Martinière. The barge progresses slowly toward the ship as the rain beats down. At 3:10 it pulls up to the aft end of the ship, and the men, watched by rifle-toting guards, climb the ladder to the deck. They are taken
