The Markaz Review:

Lara Vergnaud

In France, in certain quarters (and certain mouths), “francophone” – when referring to literature written in French – has long been a dirty word. Stripped down, it simply means French-speaking or -writing. On second thought, remove the “simply.” For writers of Arab origin in particular, the term is often fraught, demarcating between French writers (legitimacy implied) and Others. The tension is not purely semantic. The “francophone” label often equals relegation to the “Francophonie” section of French bookstores, well behind the front and center tables and shelves of contemporary “French literature.” In the process, it shapes the marketing and reception of “francophone” books while arguably shoe holing their authors into writing a certain way — namely about identity.

Though the term has been and continues to be fiercely rejected by many writers of Arab origin in France, others embrace it; others still claim to be (or at least act) largely indifferent. In my career as a literary translator, I’ve worked with many Arab authors living in France. Several have told me they loathe the label (any label, really), while one North African writer told me, Et alors? — and so what? — before adding something to the effect that it’s a writer’s job to write, so why bother preoccupying oneself with denominations and categories.

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