Race after

Sartre
 SUNY series, Philosophy and Race
Robert Bernasconi and T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting
 Race after
Sartre
Antiracism, Africana Existentialism, Postcolonialism

Edited by Jonathan Judaken

State University of New York Press

Published by State University of New York Press, Albany

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Library of Congress of Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Race after Sartre: Antiracism, Africana Existentialism, Postcolonialism / edited by

Jonathan Judaken.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978–0–7914–7547–8 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Racism. 2. Phenomenological sociology. 3. Sociology—Philosophy. 4. Sartre,
Jean-Paul, 1905–1980—Criticism and interpretation. I. Judaken, Jonathan, 1968–

HT1521 . R2333 2008

305.8—dc22
2007047993

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 To Mom and Dad
To Mark and Loren and David
To Jaynie
And to families everywhere emancipating themselves
from the bounds of “race”
This page intentionally left blank.
 Contents

Acknowledgments ix
Introduction 1

Part I: Sartre on Race and Racism

1. Sartre on Racism: From Existential Phenomenology
to Globalization and “the New Racism” 23
Jonathan Judaken
2. Skin for Sale: Race and The Respectful Prostitute 55
Steve Martinot
3. The Persistence of Colonialism: Sartre, the Left,
and Identity in Postcolonial France, 1970–1974 77
Paige Arthur

Part II: Sartre and Antiracist Theory

4. Race: From Philosophy to History 99
Christian Delacampagne
5. Sartre and Levinas: Philosophers against Racism 113
and Antisemitism
Robert Bernasconi
6. European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference: 129
Césaire and Fanon beyond Sartre and Foucault
George Ciccariello-Maher
viii Contents

Part III: Sartre and Africana Existentialism

7. Sartre and Black Existentialism 157
Lewis R. Gordon
8. Sartre and South African Apartheid 173
Mabogo P. More

Part IV: Sartre and the Postcolonial Turn

9. Difference/Indifference: Sartre, Glissant,
and the Race of Francophone Literature 193
Richard H. Watts
10. Violence, Nonviolence: Sartre on Fanon 211
Judith Butler
Contributors 233
Index 237
 Acknowledgments

An edited volume is by its nature a collective enterprise. In this case, it germi-

nated from a number of panels at the North American Sartre Society (NASS)
that addressed the topic of race and racism in 2005. This was the year of
Sartre’s centennial, and I had already attended many conferences on his
work. But the palpable excitement generated by discussions of Sartre and
race made evident that this was an under-explored area of his work whose
time had come. It became clear that a deeper interrogation of his oeuvre
around this theme was warranted.
I shared my interest with Ronald Aronson whose enthusiasm and sugges-
tions were formative for the project. We agreed that it would be important
to have Lewis Gordon contribute. From my first contacts with him, his
generosity of spirit and his electro-charged mind helped to propel the book
forward, including his suggestions for additional contributors. My colleague
and collaborator, Robert Bernasconi, quickly recognized the value of the
enterprise and adopted it for the “Philosophy and Race” series. His support
and stewardship have been exemplary.
I had already been working on the topic for some time in the course of
completing my first book, Jean-Paul Sartre and the Jewish Question: Anti-
antisemitism and the Politics of the French Intellectual (Lincoln and
London: University of Nebraska Press, “Texts and Contexts,” 2006). Both of
these works owe much to Sander Gilman, the series editor at Nebraska, the
doyen of the new Jewish cultural studies, and a vanguard contributor to crit-
ical race studies. The book on the Jewish Question would not have taken the
form it did without his input and advice, and my own thinking about how
racism functions has been much influenced by his work.
Just as the book was going to press, I sadly learned of the untimely death
of Christian Delacampagne, a reader for my first book and a contributor to
this volume. His chapter was surely one of the last things this erudite and
prolific writer and magnanimous soul was able to pen. He will be missed.

ix
x Acknowledgments

My own contributions to the volume were aided by the pointed comments

of Jennifer Geddes and Torbjörn Wandel, whose time and care with my
prose has hopefully led to a clarity and distinctness in the presentation of
Sartre’s ideas that one hopes he would have embraced. This book has also
benefited by the insightful suggestions of its two anonymous readers. The
time to put it all together was made possible by the University of Memphis.
It was completed during my tenure on a Center for Advanced Holocaust
Studies Fellowship at the Center for Advanced Holocaust Studies (CAHS)
at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (2006–2007), for which
I am most grateful. Many hours were spent in that great chamber of reflec-
tion, the main reading room at the Library of Congress. That magnificent
Renaissance revivalist structure and the wonderful librarians who so help-
fully navigate it, made a fabulous environment for research and thinking, as
did the CAHS.
The book is dedicated to my wife, my siblings, and my parents. All of we
“southerners,” whether in South Africa or Baton Rouge, were raised in an
environment saturated by race thinking, which conditioned how and where
we lived and thought and with whom we associated, such that it structured
our place in the world. And yet these structures and systems of perception
were denied. Hopefully this work will contribute to rendering visible what
racism seeks to make invisible and it will help efface the lines that divide
social, economic, and cultural differences into “races.”
We gratefully acknowledge the permission to republish parts or all of the
following:

Robert Bernasconi, “Sartre und Levinas: Philosopher gegen Rassismus und

Antisemitismus” in Verfehlte Begegnung. Levinas und Sartre als
philosophischen Zeitgenossen, ed. Thomas Bedorf und Andreas
Cremonini (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 2005): 205–22
Judith Butler, “Violence, Nonviolence: Sartre on Fanon,” Graduate Faculty
Philosophy Journal 27.1 (2006): 3–24 © Judith Butler.
George Ciccariello-Maher, “The Internal Limits of the European Gaze: Intel-
lectuals and the Colonial Difference,” Radical Philosophy Review 9.2
(2006): 139–65.
Lewis R. Gordon, “Sartre et l’existentialisme Noir,” Cités: Philosophie,
Politique, Histoire (2005): 85–97.
 Introduction
Jonathan Judaken

To claim that Jean-Paul Sartre was a major contributor to antiracist poli-

tics, critical race studies,1 Africana existentialism, and postcolonialism2
may surprise some readers. Unlike the now canonic works of some of his
interlocutors —Léopold Senghor and Aimé Césaire; Albert Memmi and
Frantz Fanon; and Richard Wright and James Baldwin—Sartre contributed
no major theoretical treatise on these topics. He offered no systematic and
coherent account of racism and ventured no programmatic approach to
undoing its manifold operations. And yet, as the chapters in this volume
show, there are few figures who have had a greater influence on the critical
theories applied to “race”3 and whose own praxis served so consistently to
destabilize racial and colonial oppression.
So why have Sartre’s writings on “race” and racism not been given the
salience they deserve? First, new directions in race theory opened up in the
1980s,4 a period in which Sartre’s work was doubly eclipsed: by approaches
influenced by structuralism and poststructuralism, 5 and by Sartre’s long
commitment to a radical Marxist politics that seemed to be crashing like
the Berlin Wall.6 Second, beyond Réflexions sur la question juive (Antisemite
and Jew), Sartre wrote no major tome on the topic of racism per se. Many
of his key insights were interspersed in prefaces to the works of others and
in his anticolonial interventions. While the most important of these were
collected in Situations V (Colonialism and Neocolonialism), this text was
only relatively recently translated into English.7 Third, Sartre was a “dead
white male.” He had no lived experience of the racial gaze or institutional-
ized discrimination, and it has been primarily those victimized by racism
who have emerged as its most eloquent critics and most listened to voices,
for they know of what they speak.
This volume provides a corrective to this lacuna. It not only offers an
overview of Sartre’s approach to racism but also considers the trajectories of

1
2 Jonathan Judaken

his influence on other theorists, and suggests the fecundity of his antiracist
strategies for combating racism today. As such, Race after Sartre will
certainly be of interest to Sartre scholars, since the effort to elucidate rigor-
ously his approach to “race” has only recently been taken up.8 In several
chapters, Sartre is situated historically, and the impact of his involvements
opposing antisemitism, colonialism, and racism, and his struggles alongside
immigrants and minorities on the evolution of his oeuvre is explored. All of
the chapters treat Sartre sympathetically, even as they broach the criticisms
that have been raised concerning his thought.
The book demonstrates once again Sartre’s ability to write powerfully
and compellingly against oppression. His strident interventions remain a
model of Leftist politics in a globalized age when “racialized social
systems”9 continue to operate at the micro and macro levels. Moreover,
Sartre’s novel and perceptive theories about the psychology of prejudice,
the configurations of racial formations, and the mechanisms by which
racism is rearticulated in a de jure postsegregationist, postcolonial, racially
heterogeneous world are enumerated.10 Because of this, Race after Sartre
will also appeal to scholars concerned with the philosophy of “race,” crit-
ical race theories, postcolonial theory, intellectual history, and French and
Francophone literature.

The Stages on Sartre’s Way

As these chapters attest, Sartre’s phenomenology of the racial oppressor
and his revolutionary solutions to alienation, marginalization, and systemic
exploitation changed over time. “In 1944 he thought that any situation
could be transcended by a subjective movement,” notes Simone de Beauvoir,
but by “1951, he knew that circumstances sometimes rob us of our tran-
scendence; against them, no individual salvation is possible, only a collective
struggle.”11 Three key vectors affected this shift in how Sartre viewed racism
and antisemitism: the changing contexts he lived through, the political strug-
gles he was immersed in, and the transformations in his intellectual itinerary
from existentialism to existential Marxism.
The historical situations in which he wrote about antisemitism and
racism underwent powerful transformations from the 1930s to the 1970s.
Born on June 21, 1905, he was baptized Jean-Paul-Charles-Aymard Sartre.
After his father died in 1906, he was raised by his doting mother and his
Protestant grandfather, Charles Schweitzer, to become a greater intellectual
figure than Albert Schweitzer, his Nobel Prize–winning cousin. A Drey-
fusard, but still fond of Jewish jokes,12 his grandfather home-schooled the
young Sartre in the classics until he entered the training grounds for France’s
intellectual elite in Paris —Lycée Henri-IV and Louis-le-Grand — where
 Introduction 3

Sartre began to publish his earliest works even before entering the École
Normale Supérieure (ENS) in 1924. Sartre’s entourage included the brilliant
Beauvoir, Paul Nizan, and Raymond Aron. This cadre sought to transcend
the neo-Kantianism of Léon Brunschvicg that then reigned supreme at the
ENS and within academic philosophy in France without recourse to the
subjectivism of Henri Bergson. Sartre, in particular, wanted to overcome
the false dichotomy between subject and object.
Providing the methodological route was the introduction into France of
Husserlian and Heideggerian phenomenology.13 The classic, albeit some-
what mythical story14 of Sartre’s own introduction to phenomenology was
recounted by Beauvoir in La force de l’âge (Prime of Life):

Sartre was greatly attracted by what he had heard of German phenomenology.

Raymond Aron, preparing a thesis on history, was studying Husserl. When he
came to Paris (1932), we spent an evening together at the Bec de Gaz, rue
Montparnasse; we ordered the specialty of the house: apricot cocktails. Aron
pointed to his glass: “You see, my friend, if you are a phenomenologist, you can
talk about this cocktail, and that is philosophy.” Sartre grew pale with excite-
ment, or nearly so. This was precisely what he had wished for years: to talk of
things as he touched them and that this was philosophy. Aron convinced him
that this was exactly what fitted his preoccupations: to transcend the opposi-
tion of idealism and realism, to affirm at the same time the sovereignty of
consciousness and the presence of the world as given to us. On the boulevard
Saint Michel he [Sartre] bought the book on Husserl by Levinas, and he was in
such a hurry to inform himself that, while walking, he leafed through the
book, whose pages he had not even cut. . . . Sartre decided to study it seri-
ously, and at Aron’s instigation, he took the necessary steps for succeeding his
“friend” at the Institute Français de Berlin the following year.15

He would spend 1933 and 1934 in Berlin as the Nazis consolidated power,
immersing himself in Husserl’s Ideas. He also attended a few of Heidegger’s
lectures the year he served as the Nazi-appointed rector of the University of
Freiburg. The product of this labor was a radicalization and critique of
Husserl’s transcendental ego, La Transcendance de l’ego (The Transcendence
of the Ego, 1937). “Consciousness is purely and simply consciousness of
being conscious of that object,” Sartre maintained.16 Consciousness thus has
no interiority; for Sartre it is nothing other than its intentional activity. The
existential implications of this insight were worked out in Sartre’s modernist
masterpiece, the philosophical novel La nauseé (Nausea, 1938),17 which
gave him his first dose of literary renown, even as France was itself becoming
polarized by the threat of fascism rising. It would be followed shortly by Le
Mur (The Wall, 1939), which included a novella, L’enfance d’un chef
4 Jonathan Judaken

(“Childhood of a Leader”), that was a biting critique of the extreme Right,

as well as the antisemitism that circulated widely across the political spec-
trum in the 1930s. This text was Sartre’s most overt political engagement of
the interwar years, and it established the contours of his existential critique
of antisemitism.18
Sartre would become an intellectual star in 1943,19 the year he published
his magnum opus L’être et le néant (Being and Nothingness). The same
year the first of his plays, Les mouches (The Flies), was staged in the heart of
Nazi-occupied Paris. His sustained elaboration of freedom as what consti-
tuted the human condition flew in the face of both Nazi and Vichy ideology,
with indigenous French “state antisemitism” becoming a pillar of the new
regime.20 Sartre spent the war years, in his words, as a “writer who resisted,
not a resistor who wrote.”21 His prolific output under the jackboot of the
Nazis—two novels, two plays, five screenplays, eleven literary-critical arti-
cles—made him an international celebrity following World War II.22
As the iron curtain of the Cold War descended, Sartre became a vocif-
erous critic of colonialism. He was also an early and forceful patron of the
negritude intellectuals. He served on the editorial board of Présence
Africaine, the major journal and later publishing house of black fran-
cophone writers and artists founded by Alioune Diop. Elevating its visibility
in the French intellectual field, he contributed the preface “Présence noire”
(“Black Presence”) to the first issue of the review in 1947.23 “Orphée noir”
(“Black Orpheus”), Sartre’s preface to Léopold Senghor’s 1948 Anthologie
de la nouvelle poésie nègre et malgache de langue française (Anthology of
African and West Indian Poets Writing in French) was largely responsible for
introducing the negritude movement to the world. Césaire, who is credited
with coining the term, later explained its origins:

It must not be forgotten that the word “negritude” was, at first, a riposte. The
word “négre” had been thrown at us as an insult, and we picked it up and
turned it into a positive concept. . . . We thought that it was an injustice to say
that Africa had done nothing, that Africa did not count in the evolution of the
world, that Africa had not invented anything of value. It was also an immense
injustice, and an enormous error, to think that nothing of value could ever
come out of Africa.24

Negritude was a movement of black solidarity and a search for an authentic

black self that began with the negation of racism. Negritude writers revolted
against the European colonial order and the hierarchy of values it imposed
on its African subjects, ultimately seeking a transvaluation of all values that
would lead to an essential humanity beyond racialism.25
Sartre also directly intervened in the anticolonial struggle. His first close
work with the Parti Communiste Français came in 1951 when he joined the
 Introduction 5

campaign to free Henri Martin, a Communist sailor who was imprisoned for
disbursing leaflets denouncing French involvement in Indochina. He was one
of the earliest critics of the Franco-Algerian war (1954–1962), advocating
on behalf of his younger colleague Francis Jeanson’s strident condemnation
of French colonial policy in L’Algérie hors la loi (Outlaw Algeria, 1955).26
In 1955, Sartre joined the Comité d’action contre la poursuite de la guerre
en Afrique du Nord (Action Committee against the War in North Africa). On
January 27, 1956, he made his first major public critique at a rally “for peace
in Algeria,” later published in Les Temps modernes as “Colonialism is a
System.”27 Articulating here what he would reiterate in his preface to Albert
Memmi’s classic book Portrait du colonisé précédé de portrait du colonisa-
teur (The Colonizer and Colonized), he argued that since both racism and
exploitation were intrinsic to the colonial system, it could not be reformed
but needed to be smashed.
When General Jacques Massu was given full police power to destroy the
terrorist networks in Algeria in 1957, thus beginning the Battle of Algiers,
repeated scandals concerning the use of terror and torture in the Franco-
Algerian war resulted in a shift in the tide of opposition to continuing the
conflict. This was unmistakable when Raymond Aron, who in 1956 signed
a manifesto in support of Algérie française, published La Tragédie algéri-
enne (The Algerian Tragedy) advocating Algerian independence.28 By 1958,
the war in Algeria had destabilized the Third Republic. But Sartre was
deeply disillusioned by the Left’s continuing failure to unequivocally support
the national liberation struggle. His dismay peeked with the popularity of
General de Gaulle’s assumption of office in June with unlimited powers for
six months and a mandate to revise the constitution.
By 1959, Sartre advocated unbridled support of the Front de Liberation
Nationale (FLN). He was one of the first signatories of the manifesto of
121 intellectuals who supported the “Declaration of the Right of Insubor-
dination in the Algerian War” in 1960. The failure of the French to embrace
the aims of the FLN led to the radicalization of his position apparent in his
preface to Frantz Fanon’s Les damnées de la terre (The Wretched of the
Earth, 1961). His intransigence led to him being targeted by the Organisa-
tion Armée Secrète (OAS), a group of military officers and pied noir
(Algerian settler) extremists, formed in 1961 to use terror tactics to bring
down the regime that was ending French Algeria. They bombed the offices
of Les Temps modernes on May 13, 1961 and Sartre’s apartment on rue
Bonaparte in St. Germain-des-Prés on two occasions: July 19, 1961 and
January 7, 1962.
By the late 1960s Sartre had begun to consider how neocolonialist struc-
tures enabled European domination and control to continue even after
imperial rule had officially ended. In his last activist years in the early 1970s,
before the onset of his blindness and his death in 1980, one of his most
6 Jonathan Judaken

sustained political campaigns focused on the struggles of immigrants

returning to the postcolonial metropole. He was beginning to discern the
importance of migrant labor and to sketch the contours of the “new
racism”29 that characterizes the age of globalization.

From Existential Phenomenology to Existential Marxism

Sartre’s evolving views on antisemitism and racism developed over these
years in relation to his changing comrades in struggle as well. Differing
contexts led him to elective affinities with a wide diversity of groups who
faced varied kinds of oppression and often dissimilar situations and whose
fight for freedom was animated by ideologies and ends that were sometimes
crosscutting. In the late 1930s and through World War II, Sartre was part of
the nonaligned constellation of antifascists. In the Cold War, he battled
alongside the workers of the world and national liberation fighters strug-
gling for independence from France from Indochina to Algeria. By the early
1960s, Sartre was the global ambassador for “Third World” insurgents from
Cuba to the Congo. By the late sixties, he embraced gauchist (New Leftist)
student revolutionaries from Berkeley to Berlin to the barricades of Paris.
And by the early 1970s, Sartre had come to see how globalization created
“interior colonies” in the metropolitan centers of the industrialized and
postindustrial North.
Adjusting his philosophical framework in relationship to these shifting
situations and struggles, Sartre’s theoretical perspective changed from an
emphasis on existential phenomenology to existential Marxism. What
remained constant was an effort to grasp what was at the heart of his exis-
tentialism: the possibility of human freedom in the face of lived constraints.
Sartre distilled the axioms of his existentialism in his famous lecture L’exis-
tentialisme est un humanisme (Existentialism is a Humanism), delivered on
October 29, 1945, at the Club Maintenant and remembered afterward as the
cultural event of the year. In a series of pithy formulations, Sartre announced
the key themes of existentialism: “existence precedes essence,” “man is
nothing else than the ensemble of his acts,” humanity is “condemned to be
free,” but as such we are all responsible for the choices we make of ourselves,
often not in situations of our own choosing.
Full apprehension of this entails anxiety, so most flee our accountability.
We numb ourselves through work, or anesthetize ourselves through the media
or conspicuous consumption, or repress our responsibility for the down-
trodden, or deny our complicity for the horrors committed in our name by
our governments. In short, we live in “bad faith” pursuing whatever will fill
the void at the heart of the human condition. Or we adopt the viewpoint of
racists who blame their condition on Others who are deemed culpable for the
 Introduction 7

social and psychological ills that plague society. But as Sartre so elegantly
crystallized it, “if existence really does precede essence, man is responsible for
what he is . . . and when we say that a man is responsible for himself, we do
not only mean that he is responsible for his own individuality, but that he is
responsible for all men.”30 Racism made plain, however, that all people were
not free, and the lived constraints on some people’s freedom were obviously
significantly more pronounced than on others’.
Therefore, in the course of the prefaces he wrote for Senghor, Memmi, and
Fanon, as well as in the wake of his political interventions in the key strug-
gles of the Cold War and decolonization, Sartre began to reexamine the the-
oretical foundations of his thought, specifically the relations between the
individual, society, and history. What did not change were his existential
commitments to freedom as constitutive of the human condition, his phe-
nomenological conception of consciousness, his critique of determinism—
whether by natural, social, or supernatural laws—and his emphasis on
creating the self through an interiorization and subjectivation of the external
conditions that shape humans. But how Sartre came to understand the fac-
tors that condition this process were deepened. Asked to write an article on
“The Situation of Existentialism in 1957” for a Polish review, he contributed
an essay that he would eventually elaborate as Questions de Méthode
(Search for a Method), his epistemological preamble to his Critique de la
raison dialectique (Critique of Dialectical Reason, 1960). His prologue
repeatedly reiterated, “Marxism is . . . the philosophy of our time.”
Marxism offered the best method for comprehending the present, Sartre
averred, but it needed to be resuscitated from the stultifying dogmatism of
Stalinism or any reductive or mechanical laws of history. He wanted to show
simultaneously how the world makes humans and how humans make their
world. This would be accomplished by reintroducing the individual within
the dialectic in order to understand how history was made by individuals
who were also products of the history that individuals had made. Existen-
tialism thus had to be rethought within the frame of Marxism, since the
“ ‘analysis’ of a situation,” he argued “is not enough and that it is but the first
moment in an effort at synthetic reconstruction.”31 What was required was
a more sophisticated understanding of the mediations between economic
determinations and concrete action, with the family serving the mediating
role, and where social context and class position are constitutive factors of
individual development (30–31).32 Akin to Wilhelm Dilthey, who sought to
formulate a “critique of historical reason” in order to understand “objective
mind,”33 Sartre wanted a theory that would account for the relative
autonomy of institutions, customs, the state, the law, ideology, religion,
language, art, and philosophy. He sought to show how these in turn were
mediated to the individual through the family.
8 Jonathan Judaken

Consequently, Sartre’s political interventions and specifically his opposi-

tion to colonialism and neocolonialism, as well as his philosophical
engagement with a series of interlocutors on the political question of liber-
ation, the ontological question of agency, the ethical question of
responsibility, and the epistemological question of history altered how he
framed the dialectical relationship between individual and society,
consciousness and history, and ethics and politics. As Race after Sartre elab-
orates, attention to racism and its discontents therefore illuminates the
Sartrean oeuvre while Sartre’s critical acumen discloses anew the workings
of racist exploitation. And it does so in ways that offer powerful insights
into Sartre’s work as an informing horizon for critical approaches to racism
and for rethinking race in a postcolonial age.

Sartre in His Time and in Ours

In this volume Sartre is scrutinized as our contemporary. His philosophical
reflections are not examined as the antiquated repository of a great mind
no longer relevant. All of the chapters examine Sartre’s work as a vital
resource for the most pressing political questions today, where race and
racism continue to shape the social configuration: from the riots in France in
November 2005 to the response to Hurricane Katrina to today’s “global
apartheid”; from the wider issues of immigration and racism in the age of
globalization to the outsourcing of torture in liberal societies; from the
stolen elections by Bush in Florida in 2000 to the racial inequities in incar-
ceration; from the policies of affirmative action to the possibility of a
“colorblind” society; from reparations for slavery and apartheid to the Truth
and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa; and from the role of intel-
lectuals in speaking for or with the oppressed to enabling the subaltern to
speak in their own critical idioms.
The title of the collection connotes at least three axes of interrogation.
First, the category of “race” will be examined through Sartre’s work because
in a series of seminal texts (Being and Nothingness, Antisemite and Jew, his
preface to Senghor’s anthology of negritude poetry, his prefaces to the works
of Memmi, Fanon, and Lumumba, Critique of Dialectical Reason, among
others) he anticipated and made possible much of the crucial work that is
being undertaken in “race” critical theories and postcolonialism: (1) he was
among the first to argue that “race” is a social construct; (2) he insisted that
“race” is formed by social struggles and informs processes of inclusion and
exclusion, racial subjectification and subjection; (3) he developed the
dialectic of the gaze as intrinsic to defining the individual and collective Self
and Other; (4) he was an early critic of the shortcomings of the liberal,
humanist, Enlightenment tradition for combating racism; (5) he examined
 Introduction 9

how racism was shaped in discourse — considering the semiology of the

racialized other and the necessity to deconstruct these stereotypes; (6) he
also maintained that discrimination was institutionalized in the structures
and rituals of everyday life; (7) he saw how the system of rules and norms
establishing hierarchy and subjugation within the social order could be
revealed from the perspective of the racially oppressed; and (8) his vision
broadened over time to an appreciation of how race and racism function
within the neocolonial global order.
Consequently, a number of the contributors consider race after Sartre
because his work provides a machinery of concepts and a set of axioms
that need to be developed in thinking about racialization and the politics of
antiracism today: from his existential approach to freedom, responsibility,
bad faith, the situation, and the dialectic of human recognition engendered
by the gaze to his later Marxist emphasis on dialectical history, praxis,
need, the practico-inert, idea hexis, groups-in-fusion, and seriality. More-
over, Sartre’s antifoundationalist critique of essentialism was a crucial step
toward the decentering of subjectivity so pivotal to poststructuralism and, in
turn, postcolonialism. These theories have led to reconsiderations of the
interplay between cultural identities and social structures. Sartre was the
most visible intellectual in the world reflecting on the transformation of
these structures after Auschwitz and during decolonization, and his insights
shaped how these issues have come to be considered in his wake, even when
this influence remains unacknowledged.
But finally, Sartre himself also constitutes a privileged site for thinking
about the dead ends of certain roads to freedom from the racialized social
order. His work evinces the slipperiness and links of stereotyping because
while he was a sophisticated critic of antisemitism and racism, he occasion-
ally repeated certain antisemitic and racist motifs. His radical activism also
poses the question of the limits of violence and the shortcuts of terrorism
since Sartre advocated revolutionary violence as a means to overcome the
systematic dehumanization and exploitation of the oppressed that in his
later work he saw as the kernel of racism, which in Algeria and the Congo,
to name only two prominent examples where he supported such measures,
had horrific consequences.

Sartre’s Questions and Ours

There are diverse approaches taken here by a motley collection of contribu-
tors: philosophers, intellectual historians, literary scholars, cultural critics;
men and women; Europeans, Americans, Africans, African Americans, Afro-
Asians, Afro-Irish-Amero-Indians; Jews, non-Jews, and nonbelievers; young
and more established academics. Their differing methodological and
10 Jonathan Judaken

epistemological interests consequently intersect with the issues raised by race

after Sartre from a variety of perspectives and toward different ends. While
this leads to some contrasting viewpoints about the same texts or contexts,
for the most part it results in a prismatic approach where the many hues of
Sartre’s work and impact are delineated. Ultimately, what most unites the
pieces are the ways that Sartre’s considerations of racism and colonialism
involve one in a tangle of ethical and political problems. This problem-
oriented slant gives the volume its vitality and animates the links between
the parts and pieces.
To what extent are racism and antisemitism congruent forms of stigma-
tizing the Other and to what extent do their histories diverge? Richard King’s
Race, Culture and the Intellectuals, which provides an overview of theories
of racism and antisemitism from Auschwitz through the Civil Rights Move-
ment, maintains that “the epistemological, psychological, historical, and
ideological roots of racism, antisemitism and Eurocentrism proved to be
quite disparate.”34 But most of the writers he considers focused on either
antisemitism or racism. One of Sartre’s virtues, however, was to have consid-
ered both, drawing upon the concepts and guidelines of his interventions
into antisemitism in his later antiracist, anticolonial, and postcolonial works.
Several of the chapters (Jonathan Judaken, Steve Martinot, Christian Dela-
campagne, Robert Bernasconi) develop the cross-filiations between these
differing forms of ostracism, even as they are aware of the differences
between these modalities of racialization.
What responsibility do the citizens or descendants of racist states have to
those victimized in the name of racial ideology? Sartre’s writings in the
immediate aftermath of the Holocaust and Hiroshima broached the problem
Karl Jaspers had addressed in Die Schuldfrage (The Question of German
Guilt, 1946) about what he called “metaphysical guilt” or what Bernasconi
names “hyperbolic responsibility.” We are collectively responsible for the
oppression that is committed in our name, Sartre reminded us time and
again. In the case of Jim Crow America, Nazi Germany, Algérie française,
or South Africa, which Mabogo P. More explores at length here, what are the
avenues to truth and reconciliation and what limits does the racial order
impose upon achieving them?
What are the links between the use of torture and the racial order that
imposes its rule through these brutal measures? In the aftermath of Abu
Ghraib and the program of “extraordinary rendition” sanctioned by the
highest rungs of the American political and military establishment, Sartre’s
writings on the topic once more sting with a new urgency as both Judith
Butler and Judaken explore. How are we to reconcile modern liberal democ-
racy and the righteous sanctification of medieval methods for the extraction
of “information”? Sartre taught that torture is about dehumanization, not
 Introduction 11

gathering facts. The torturer is merely the most visibly violent face of the
imposition of power whose end is systemic dispossession and expropriation
that ultimately can only legitimate itself by racism.
What do the occlusions within Sartre’s own “antiracist racism” indicate
about the ways in which racism as a parasitic ideology is able to perpetuate
itself? At times, his own work reiterates stereotypes of “the Jew” or “the
African” as a characterological type. He sometimes valorized as necessary
the prejudices that the oppressed merely inverse and return in their image of
the oppressor. But he also suggested that what W. E. B. Du Bois called the
“conservation of the races” was necessary in the form of embracing in pride
the status of the subordinate class or group, at least until racialism was over-
come. He thus squarely apprehended the antinomies that linger in the
contemporary politics of affirmative action or in calls for a “colorblind”
society. And what of the legitimacy of the counterviolence of the oppressed
in reclaiming their humanity after a subhuman existence? In addressing these
dilemmas to Sartre’s oeuvre, a number of the contributors (Bernasconi,
Butler, Delacampagne, Richard Watts) examine not only how they demar-
cate closures in Sartre’s thinking, but openings to unexamined assumptions
within Western civilization about racialized Others.
And what defines “the West,” Europe, France, or America, and what place
does race and racism have in these political spaces? Indeed, all of the overde-
termined questions of identity revolve around this vexed query. Here,
Sartre’s antiracist and anticolonialist writings and interventions fold onto
the new terrain of not only postcolonial theory, but also postcontinental
philosophy. For via Sartre’s canonical location within the Western philo-
sophical and cultural tradition, all of his companions and interlocutors are
admitted into that sacred realm. But via their interventions that inspired his
own, Sartre also opens those traditions to what has been excluded,
repressed, marginalized, or oppressed. Simultaneously a new Africana and
postcontinental tradition is demarcated, as Lewis Gordon, George
Ciccariello-Maher, and More sketch. Gordon’s genealogy of Sartre’s impact
on black existential thought, the theorization of race, and the development
of antiracist theory, explored also by Delacampagne and Bernasconi, indi-
cates the effects that Sartre’s input had on reforging the boundaries of
philosophy and intellectual history.
What then is Sartre’s place within the map of postcolonial thought? Both
Watts and Butler survey key interventions that have defined the Francophone
postcolonial field, discerning how Sartre inhabits its margins but nonetheless
casts a shadow across the postcolonial topography. In examining the borders
of violence/nonviolence, difference/indifference, insider/outsider, and
center/periphery, they each consider what his prefaces or “paratexts”35 imply
for a host of complicated issues: Does Sartre in his mode of address reiterate
12 Jonathan Judaken

the very gesture of dehumanization at the core of racism? Does he interpo-

late a frenzied fraternal order, a masculinist mob, who are the audience
who must hear his appeal to listen to the words Fanon offers in The
Wretched of the Earth or that the negritude poets sound? Has Sartre
squelched the freedom of the colonized in an overly reductive view of the
processes of history? Does his valorization of violence as the deterministic
blowback of colonial exploitation paradoxically deny agency to colonial
insurgents?
How also did the impact of Sartre’s own self-reflexive examination of
these questions impact the development of his philosophical and political
agenda? While several chapters explicitly trace the stages on Sartre’s way,
many of the contributors offer their own version of the changes within
Sartre’s oeuvre. His work clearly shifted from an emphasis on the existen-
tial phenomenology of racial oppression defined by the structure of the
gaze toward racism as the “idea hexis” of economic exploitation (i.e., the
stereotypes, images, myths, and sound bites that help legitimate the insti-
tutionalization of white superiority). In the course of these cleavages, Sartre
created a tool box of concepts, theorems, and strategies for understanding
the operations of race and racism that are not only helpful in under-
standing his opus but in engaging with the ongoing racialized structures of
domination that we face in the world today.

The Pieces of the Puzzle

The structure of the book is straightforward: It is divided into four parts
with the first chapter in each offering a general overview, some aspects of
which are then explored in greater detail in what follows. The first section,
“Sartre on Race and Racism,” provides a survey of Sartre’s positions as they
unfolded over his lifetime. Judaken’s first chapter argues that there were four
overlapping phases that are nonetheless heuristically useful to separate in
order to define the major texts, concepts, and precepts that Sartre worked
through in his antiracist writings: (1) anti-antisemitism, (2) anticolonialist
existential humanism, (3) Third World radicalism, (4) antiracist alter-glob-
alization. The chapter offers an intellectual history of “Sartre on Racism”
that explicates the key notions and theorems of Sartre’s understanding of
race as they evolved in his major works on the topic over time and provides
a systematic overview of Sartre’s approach to racism that sets the stage for
all the other contributions.
Having surveyed the oeuvre as a whole, the chapters that follow magnify
particularly neglected aspects of Sartre’s work. In “Skin for Sale,” Martinot
examines closely his much-neglected dramatic work The Respectful Prosti-
tute (1946), exploring how Sartre may well have been accused of anti-
 Introduction 13

Americanism when the play was produced precisely because, properly under-
stood, it lays bare the mechanisms of white supremacy in American society.
Racism, Martinot argues, is a complex set of processes of internal white
bonding and The Respectful Prostitute brilliantly and incisively dramatizes
these. He not only uses the theatrical piece as a point of entry into Sartre’s
understanding of racism, but also outlines how the social structures of ethical
inversion, criminalization of the victim, derogation, and “consensus, myth and
membership in the white socius constitute the framework in which a person
understands himself or recognizes himself as ‘white.’ ” He thereby helps us to
understand the social production of whiteness as the basis of white supremacy
and white supremacy as the basis of racism.
Paige Arthur in “The Persistence of Colonialism” focuses on Sartre’s last
years of militant activism in the early 1970s when his political interven-
tions addressed the policies and treatment of non-European immigrant
laborers in France and also engaged the question of autonomist regional
movements within Europe. She examines how his last works knitted together
issues of racism and regionalism within the analytical framework of “inte-
rior colonialism.” By the mid-1970s, however, Sartre’s failing health
dovetailed with the general collapse of the revolutionary Left. The Parti
Socialiste came to co-opt struggles for immigrant rights and regional
autonomy. But in doing so, they rejected the culturally particularist argu-
ments of Sartre and the gauchistes in favor of universalist claims of national
identity purportedly open to all, conjoining socialism to values of liberalism,
often articulated around the theme of human rights, with culturalist argu-
ments consigned to the shadows. This nexus would predominate for the next
intellectual generation. Contextualizing Sartre’s efforts in the early 1970s,
Arthur shows how these circumstantial pieces nonetheless “marked in a
rather prescient way many of the issues that would dominate political
discussion concerning relations with non-Western countries and peoples for
the coming decade and beyond: the social, economic, and cultural problems
of immigration; the contemporary conjuncture of racism with economic and
demographic pressures pushing and pulling people across borders; the
persistence of colonialism, whether on the level of economics (neocolo-
nialism) or the level of ideas (as a model for social oppression and
exclusion); and, finally, the possibility of freedom for the least favored of
the world, beaten down in this case by poverty and exploitation, but in other
cases, by repressive governments in their home countries.”
The essays in Part II elaborate upon some of the resources within Sartre’s
body of work for antiracist theory. Delacampagne in his “Race: From
Philosophy to History” offers a genealogy, focusing primarily on the history
of antisemitism but insisting on its essential overlaps with racism. He exam-
ines how it was originally “philosophers with a historical turn of mind,
14 Jonathan Judaken

whose theoretical insights were later empirically grounded by the efforts of

historians” that elucidated how “race” functions as an historical construct
and thus how Sartre was intrinsic in establishing some of the foundational
axioms for combating racism. Robert Bernasconi, in contrast, bemoans the
fact that philosophers have contributed at least as much to the history of
racism as to antiracism. His chapter on “Sartre and Levinas” focuses on how
both these thinkers can be mobilized to destabilize, disrupt, and disarm
racism. He maintains against other commentators, notably Alain
Finkielkraut, that Sartre and Levinas are not as radically opposed to each
other as is usually claimed. Bernasconi is attentive to their different philo-
sophical agendas, specifically on the issue of racism: Levinas emphasizes that
racism is a denial of ethical responsibility before the Other, a rebuff of
alterity and one’s concomitant ethical moral obligations; whereas for Sartre
the germ of racism is the denial of the freedom of the Other. In short, they
divide over whether politics or ethics comes first. But Bernasconi insists that
their differences should not foreclose what they shared in the fight against
racism, since “both Sartre and Levinas offer an alternative to the so-called
Enlightenment universalist approach by emphasizing the positive role played
by the bodily within a synthetic or holistic account of identity to which one
is nevertheless not reduced.”
Ciccariello-Maher’s “European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference”
explores the internal antinomies of European conceptions of humanism and
antihumanism. Focusing first on the debate between Sartre and Foucault on
the universal versus the specific intellectual, Ciccariello-Maher maintains that
Sartre’s understanding of “the situation” bolsters his position against some of
the charges laid by Foucault. He then compares Sartre’s and Foucault’s con-
ceptions of the gaze. He argues that Foucault’s notion of the power relations
of the gaze worked out from The Birth of the Clinic through Discipline and
Punish and Sartre’s later existential Marxist understanding were crucially
anticipated by Fanon. Fanon is then leveraged to insist that both Foucault
and “Sartre’s totalization remain bound to Eurocentrism” because they had
not fully digested the implication of their own situation as European intellec-
tuals. Fanon, on the other hand, emphasized “the concreteness and historical
ladenness of the gaze, which is asymmetrical in terms of power, but which
invokes not only a history of classification, but that of a colonial classification
based on phenotype.” In the final turn of the chapter, Césaire is marshaled
alongside Fanon, to construe an alter-humanism that no longer reinscribes
“philosophical agency within its traditional European locus.”
Part III, “Sartre and Africana Existentialism,” follows the trajectory
opened by Ciccariello-Maher’s chapter in considering the impact of Sartre
on the black existentialist tradition. Gordon’s “Sartre and Black Existen-
tialism” is an encomium to Sartre the Africana existentialist, since Gordon
 Introduction 15

argues that black existentialism is not only existentialism produced by

blacks. Sartre was a black existentialist for many reasons: (1) because he was
a committed antiracist from his early works on antisemitism to his interven-
tions against the discrimination of immigrant Africans in France; (2) he
engaged with black cultural forms, specifically poetry, literature, philosophy,
and jazz; (3) he had a profound impact on non-European intellectuals from
America, the Caribbean, Latin America, and Africa; (4) he was an important
influence on liberation theorists, including black liberationists like Fanon
and Angela Davis; and (5) in and out of the academy, the whole black exis-
tentialist tradition that Gordon sketches was engaged with Sartre’s writing,
as he was engaged with black existentialism, providing a cross-fertilization
that offers some of the richest resources for thinking about race and racism.
This fertile ground is then delved into in More’s “Sartre and South African
Apartheid,” which considers how Sartre’s philosophical vocabulary and
analyses of oppression influenced the Black Consciousness Movement,
particularly Steve Biko. Biko, like Sartre, sought to register the systemic
nature of apartheid and how its webs of privilege and subordination impli-
cated everyone at every level. Both also emphasized an expansive conception
of human agency and its correlate “collective responsibility.” More applies
these considerations as a critical corrective to the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission, arguing that in the end it served as a mechanism to achieve
national reconciliation by compromising the truth and reinforcing the alien-
ation of blacks from economic and social justice, which remains an ongoing
struggle in South Africa.
From postcolonial South Africa to two central moments of the postcolo-
nial Francophone canon, in Part IV, “Sartre and the Postcolonial Turn,”
Watts and Butler in turn investigate “Black Orpheus,” his famous preface on
behalf of negritude poetry and his preface to Fanon’s The Wretched of the
Earth. By contextualizing “Black Orpheus” within the history of prefaces
by European patrons of colonial literature, Watts’s “Difference/Indiffer-
ence” problematizes the now facile dismissal of Sartre’s text as a “poisoned
gift.” While sensitive to the ways that Sartre’s tack was panoptic and some-
times cast into shadow the writers he sought to bring into the light of critical
discourse, Watts offers an alternative way of reading Sartre’s dialectic,
following Denis Hollier, that sees it not as insisting on the dissipation of
difference but, rather, as appreciating how differences are conditioned within
the dialectics of history. He compares Sartre’s “allographic paratexts” with
those of Edouard Glissant, who reacting against the Sartrean tradition often
sought to remain in the shadows in his paratexts, privileging a rhetoric that
inscribed horizontality rather than hierarchy, but whose relational concep-
tion of differences paradoxically smothers the possibility of a critical
engagement with “race” more emphatically than does Sartre.
16 Jonathan Judaken

Judith Butler’s “Violence, Nonviolence” thinks alongside Sartre and Fanon

(and Homi Bhabha) about a range of issues broached in their texts: their
mode of address, their understanding of dehumanization and subjectiviza-
tion, the shortcomings of both liberal humanism and violent insurgency, and
the tensions within revolutionary violence as a response to systemic violence.
While attuned to their differences, she is critical of both Sartre’s and Fanon’s
masculinism and salvationist visions of violence, but nevertheless finds the
resources for her critique within their own texts. For Sartre it was his futural
vision of a community defined as an “infinite unity of mutual needs,” while
she heeds Fanon’s call for an epistemic and political openness that is at once
bodily and conscious. She affirms in both Sartre and Fanon the acknowl-
edgment of our embodiment that presages the undoing of the binaries
between colonizer/colonized and masculine/feminine, and the movement
toward what Butler calls “a recorporalization of humanism.” Her redemp-
tive reading gestures toward a world in which mutual needs may be
recognized, and the address to others as “you” may take the place of the
abstract humanist talk about “man.”
But this outline of the structure and contents of the book cannot do
justice to the acumen that Sartre and his commentators evince as interpreters
of the injustices of racism. The reader of the volume is therefore offered an
entrée into Sartre’s thought, the tools of his conceptual armory, a deeper
appreciation of his place within race critical theories and postcolonialism,
and the example of his engagements in the ongoing struggle to fight racism.
Ergo tolle lege!

Notes
1. By “critical race studies,” I mean the vast body of scholarship on the historical
evolution and contemporary expression of race as a social category for
discriminating, organizing, regulating, and maintaining social differences. By
revealing that racial categories emerge in specific contexts that are connected
to power, politics, economics, and culture, these scholars have destabilized
those categories as natural or transhistorical. The point is to disclose how race
operates in differing situations and texts, in order to undermine the force of
racism. For a useful overview on this scholarship, see David Theo Goldberg
and John Solomos, eds., A Companion to Race and Ethnic Studies (Malden,
Mass.: Blackwell, 2002).
2. For a good sense of this canon and how Sartre remains largely absent from it,
see the most widely used anthology in the field by Bill Aschcroft, Gareth Grif-
fiths, and Helen Tiffin, eds, The Postcolonial Studies Reader (London and New
York: Routledge, 1995); see also, Leela Gandhi, Postcolonial Theory: A Crit-
ical Introduction (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998); Bart
MooreGilbert, Postcolonial Theory: Contexts, Practices, Politics (London:
Verso, 1998); Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism (London: Routledge,
1998); Henry Schwarz and Sangeeta Ray, A Companion to Postcolonial
Studies (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000); Gaurav Desai and Supriya Nair, eds., Post-
 Introduction 17

colonialisms: An Anthology of Cultural Theory and Criticism (New

Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2005). For the importance of Sartre’s
contributions to postcolonialism, see Robert J. C. Young, White Mythologies:
Writing History and the West (London and New York: Routledge, 2004),
61–82, and Simon Gikandi, “Poststructuralism and Postcolonial Discourse,”
The Cambridge Companion to Postcolonial Literary Studies, ed. Neil Lazarus
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 100–10.
3. Following Henry Louis Gates Jr., I write “race” and “the Jew” in quotes to
indicate that these are constructed categories and that to describe “the Jew” or
“the black” or “the white” also inscribes the category as a marker of difference
whether based on language, belief system, artistic tradition, or gene pool. See
Henry Louis Gates Jr., “Introduction: Writing ‘Race’ and the Difference It
Makes” in “Race,” Writing and Difference, ed. Henry Louis Gates Jr.
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986), 5. See also Berel Lang, “From
Grammar to Antisemitism: On the ‘the’ in ‘the Jews.’ ” Originally published in
Midstream v. 49.4 (May–June 2003). Available at:
http://www.wzo.org.il/en/resources/view.asp?id=1489. Accessed July 4, 2006.
Following a now common practice among scholars, I do not hyphenate
antisemitism throughout this volume because, as Shmuel Almog, put it, “If you
use the hyphenated form you consider the words ‘Semitism’, ‘Semite’, ‘Semitic’
as meaningful. They supposedly convey an image of a real substance, of a real
group of people, ‘Semites’, who are said to be a race. This is a misnomer:
firstly, because ‘semitic’ or ‘aryan’ were originally language groups, not people;
but mainly because in antisemitic parlance, ‘Semites’ really stands for Jews,
simply that. . . . So the hyphen, or rather its omission, conveys a message: if
you hyphenate your ‘anti-Semitism’ you attach some credence to the very foun-
dation on which the whole thing rests. Strike out the hyphen and you will
treat antisemitism for what it really is—a generic name for modern Jew-
hatred.” See Shmuel Almog, “What’s in a Hyphen,” in Sicsa Report: The
Newsletter of the Vidal Sassoon International Study of Antisemitism (Summer
1989), n.2: 1–2. To attain uniformity, I have altered the spelling of titles of
works to accommodate this spelling as well.
4. Two useful anthologies that bring this literature together are David Theo
Goldberg, ed., Anatomy of Racism (Minneapolis and London: University of
Minnesota Press, 1990), and Philomena Essed and David Theo Goldberg, Race
Critical Theories: Text and Context (Oxford: Blackwell, 2002).
5. For the ways that structuralism and poststructuralism defined themselves in
opposition to Sartre there is an ample literature. For one excellent treatment,
see François Dosse, History of Structuralism, vol. 1: The Rising Sign, trans.
Deborah Glassman (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997). For
one among many examples of the ways that postcolonialism, alongside post-
structuralism and deconstruction, has defined itself in opposition to Sartre, see
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a
History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1999), 171, 173.
6. On Sartre’s commitment to Marxism, see Mark Poster, Existential Marxism in
Postwar France (Princeon: Princeton University Press, 1975), and Mark Poster,
Sartre’s Marxism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982); Ronald
Aronson, Philosophy in the World (London: New Left, 1980); and Ian
Birshall, Sartre against Stalinism (New York and Oxford: Berghahn, 2004).
7. Situations V: Colonialisme et néo-colonialisme (Paris: Galimard, 1964), trans.
Azzedine Haddour, Steve Brewer and Terry McWilliams (London and New
York: Routledge, 2000).
18 Jonathan Judaken

8. The major exceptions to this in English are most importantly the works of
Lewis Gordon, including Bad Faith and Antiblack Racism (New Jersey:
Humanities, 1995); Fanon and the Crisis of European Man: An Essay on
Philosophy and the Human Sciences (New York and London: Routledge,
1995), especially chapter 2; and Lewis Gordon, Existentia Africana: Under-
standing Africana Existential Thought (New York and London: Routledge,
2000), 9, 73–79, 109–13, 119–34, and passim. See also Robert Bernasconi’s
excellent article “Sartre’s Gaze Returned: The Transformation of the Phenome-
nology of Racism,” Graduate Faculty Philosophy Journal 10.2 (1995),
reprinted in William McBride, ed., Existentialist Ethics (New York: Garland,
1997), 359–79; And finally, Jonathan Judaken, Jean-Paul Sartre and the Jewish
Question: Anti-antisemitism and the Politics of the French Intellectual
(Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2006). Some other recent
works in English are cited in chapter 1. In French, see the important book by
Nouredine Lemouchi, Jean-Paul Sartre et le tiers monde: rhétorique d’un
discours anticolonialiste (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1996).
9. Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, “Rethinking Racism: Towards a Structural Interpreta-
tion,” American Sociological Review 62.3 (June 1997): 465–80.
10. On the latter point, see Howard Winant, “Race and Race Theory,” Annual
Review of Sociology 26 (2000): 169–85, 171. See also Michael Omi and
Howard Winant, Racial Formation in the United States: From the 1960s to the
1990s (New York: Routledge, 1994).
11. Simone de Beauvoir, La force de choses, 1 (Paris: Gallimard, 1963), 333.
12. Sartre discussed this in a posthumously published interview with Arlette
Elkaïm-Sartre, Benny Lévy, and Ely Ben-Gal, published in the annex of Eli
Ben-Gal, Mardi Chez Sartre: Un Hébreu à Paris, 1967–1980 (Paris: Flam-
marion, 1992).
13. See Eugene H. Frickey, “The Origins of Phenomenology in France,
1920–1940,” PhD diss, Indiana University, 1979. On Sartre’s place within the
phenomenological movement, see Herbert Spiegelberg’s The Phenomenolog-
ical Movement (The Hague: Nijhoss, 1982), 445–515. See also, Martin Jay,
Marxism and Totality: The Adventures of a Concept from Lukács to
Habermas (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1984),
334–36.
14. Ethan Kleinberg, Generation Existential: Heidegger’s Philosophy in France,
1927–1961 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005), 116–19, makes clear that
Sartre had already encountered the work of both Husserl and Heidegger
earlier.
15. Simone de Beauvoir, La force de l’âge (Paris: Gallimard, 1960), 141–42, trans.
Peter Green, The Prime of Life (Cleveland: World, 1962), 112.
16. Jean-Paul Sartre, The Transcendence of the Ego (New York: Octagon, 1972),
40.
17. Jean-Paul Sartre, The Philosophy of Jean-Paul Sartre, ed. and intro. Robert
Denoon Cumming (New York: Random House, 1965), 15: “The structure of the
story Nausea reproduces the reflexive aspiration of consciousness in Sartre’s
philosophy: Nausea is a novel (at the higher reflexive level) about the prereflec-
tive experiences that led up to the writing of the novel. Proust’s novel has a com-
parable structure. But in Proust (as in Husserl) experience is recaptured in its
necessary structure by the reflective movement which transcends experience.
Thus Proust’s recherche is successfully completed in his terminal volume, Le
Temps retrouvé. But Sartre has his ostensible protagonist in Nausea, Roquentin,
tell the story to show that one cannot in fact ‘catch time by the tail’. Further-
 Introduction 19

more, the true protagonist, nausea itself, is (one of its manifestations) the
reflexive experience of the discrepancy between the necessary structure of the
story as told (as a work of art) and the sense of contingency—of the indetermi-
nacy of the future—which is the experience of the sloppiness of living one’s life
that one seeks to alleviate by telling the story about it. This discrepancy, which
self-consciousness (as well as Proust and the literary tradition) obscures by its
loquacity, is preserved in Nausea. The novel is not completed with the novel,
which ends with Roquentin’s aspiration to regain his past experience by writing
the novel, but his actual future left dangling.”
18. Philip Thody, Sartre: A Biographical Introduction (New York: Scribner’s,
1971), 55, contends that “L’Enfance d’un Chef (sic) is, in this respect, the most
openly political of all Sartre’s prewar writings.” Jean-François Sirinelli argues
that Sartre became concerned with historical events and politics in the course
of writing Le Mur and dates his turn to 1937. See Jean-François Sirinelli,
Deux intellectuals dans le siècle: Sartre et Aron (Paris: Fayard, 1995), 146–47.
19. On this point, see Ingrid Galster, ed., La naissance du “phénomène Sartre”:
Raison d’un succèc, 1939–1945 (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2001).
20. On the cultural politics of the Vichy period and how French intellectuals
responded to it, see Jonathan Judaken, “Intellectuals, Culture and the Vichy
Years: Reappraisals and New Perspectives,” Contemporary French Civilization,
ed. Denis Provencher and Andrew Sabonet, special issue France, 1940–1944:
The Ambiguous Legacy 31.2 (Fall 2007): 83–115.
21. The oft-cited phrase is from the interviews with John Gerassi. See the citations
in Gerassi, Jean-Paul Sartre: Hated Conscience of His Century, volume 1:
Protestant or Protestor? (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press,
1989), 179, 187. See also Jean-Paul Sartre, Oeuvres romanesques (Paris: Galli-
mard, 1981), lviii. Thanks to Dennis Gilbert and William McBride for the
references when I needed them.
22. Andrew Leak, Jean-Paul Sartre (London: Reaktion, 2006), 63–65.
23. On Présence Africaine, see V. Y. Mudimbe’s The Surreptitious Speech: Présence
Africaine and the Politics of Otherness, 1947–1987 (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1992).
24. Aimé Césaire, “Entretien et débat,” at the Maison Helvétique in 1967. Cited in
Bennetta Jules-Rosette, “Jean-Paul Sartre and the Philosophy of Négritude:
Race, Self, and Society,” Theory and Society 36.3 (June 2007).
25. See Abiola Irele, “A Defence of Negritude,” Transition no. 13 (March–April
1964): 9–11. On the distinction between “racialism” and different modes of
racism, see Kwame Anthony Appiah, “Racisms” in David Theo Goldberg, ed.,
Anatomy of Racism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990). See
also the way that Tzvetan Todorov delineates the distinction between
“racialism” and “racism,” in On Human Diversity: Nationalism, Racism and
Exoticism in French Thought (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1993), 90–95.
26. Collette and Francis Jeanson, L’Algérie hors la loi (Paris: Éditions du Seuil,
1955).
27. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Le Colonialisme est un systéme,” Les Temps modernes
(March-April 1956): 1371–86. Reproduced in Sartre, Situations V (Paris: Galli-
mard, 1964), 25–48. Translated as Colonialism and Neocolonialism (London
and New York: Routledge, 2001). On the Comité d’action, see James Le Sueur,
Uncivil War: Intellectuals and Identity Politics during the Decolonization of
Algeria (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), 31–54.
28. Raymond Aron, La Tragédie algérienne (Paris: Plon, 1957).
20 Jonathan Judaken

29. Martin Baker, The New Racism: Conservatism and the Ideology of the Tribes
(London: Junction, 1981); Amy E. Ansell, New Right, New Racism: Race and
Reaction in the United States and Britain (New York: New York University
Press, 1997); Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, Racism without Racists: Color-Blind
Racism and the Persistence of Racial Inequality in the United States (New
York: Rowman and Littlefield, 2003); Patricia Hill Collins, Black Sexual Poli-
tics: African Americans, Gender, and the New Racism (New York: Routledge,
2005).
30. Jean-Paul Sartre, L’existentialisme est un humanisme (Paris: Nagel, 1946), 24,
trans. Bernard Frechtman, “Existentialism” in Existentialism and Human
Emotions (New York: Philosophical Library), 9–51, 16.
31. Jean-Paul Sartre, Search for a Method, trans. Hazel Barnes (New York:
Vintage, 1963), 27. Cited parenthetically hereafter.
32. On this point and the basic premises of the Méthode, see Mark Poster, Exis-
tential Marxism in Postwar France, 272 and 264–74.
33. Rhiannon Goldthorpe makes this point in “Understanding the Committed
Writer” in Christina Howells, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Sartre
(Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 151.
34. Richard H. King, Race, Culture and the Intellectuals, 1940–1970 (Baltimore
and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 306 and passim.
35. Richard Watt’s develops Gérard Genette’s term in Packaging Post/Coloniality:
The Manufacture of Literary Identity in the Francophone World (Lanham:
Lexington, 2005). By the “paratext” Watt’s means the various mechanisms for
the packaging of books, including “titles, covers, illustrations, promotional
summaries, epigraphs, dedications, and, most significantly, prefaces that make
the unadorned text a book” (2), since these paratexts announce the work,
situate it, and impose or at least suggest an interpretative frame.
 Part I

Sartre on
Race and Racism
This page intentionally left blank.
 Chapter 1

Sartre on Racism
From Existential Phenomenology
to Globalization and “the New Racism”
Jonathan Judaken

In early November 2005, our television screens were suddenly ablaze with cars
on fire and the burning rage of the ghettoized banlieues that surround the
urban centers of France. On October 27, 2005, the deaths of Zyed Benna, 17,
and Bouna Traoré, 15, electrocuted fleeing the flics (cops) in Clichy-sous-Bois,1
sparked the pent-up wrath of the mostly Maghrebin and West African immi-
grant youth that erupted nightly over the next month: The damage included
over 8,400 torched vehicles and 2,600 arrests in nearly 100 towns across
France.2 In contrast to the neoconservative commentary on the riots,3 “the
rage expressed by young men from the cités does not spring from antiimperi-
alist Arab nationalism or some sort of anti-Western jihadism,” Paul Silverstein
and Chantal Tetreault maintain, “but rather from lifetimes of rampant unem-
ployment, school failure, police harassment and everyday discrimination that
tends to treat the youths as the racaille [scum]” that then Interior Minister
Nicolas Sarkozy labeled them. 4 To end the violence, Prime Minister
Dominique de Villepin announced a state of emergency on November 7. In
doing so, he invoked an April 1955 law created in order to eliminate support
for the budding Algerian war of independence, a provision that was extended
for an additional three months on November 15 by the National Assembly.
Did we witness the reprise of colonial legislation in the postcolonial
metropole because colonialism has been deterritorialized in the age of glob-
alization? Jean-Paul Sartre, in an article written in 1973 called “Le Nouveau
Racisme” (translated as “France and a Matter of Racism”), an intervention
in response to the killing of Mohamad Diab by a French police sergeant,
suggested more than thirty years ago that there was a nexus between the
postcolonial situation and racism. Racism legitimated the exploitation that
underpinned colonialism, he declared. Decolonization should have taught
Europeans that “the impoverished and weaponless colonials . . . are no more
subhuman than we.” Instead, Sartre declared,

23
42 Jonathan Judaken

the Americans. Africa would be racked by weak central governments,

controlled by the bourgeoisie and large landowners aligned with the mili-
tary, who would do the bidding of multinational corporations.
This neocolonial order marked the decisive reinforcement of white hege-
mony because separate from an appreciation of the structural forces that
underpin it, the white, Western, new world order appeared to have clean
hands in the murder of Lumumba. So, concluded Sartre,

The dead Lumumba ceased to be a person and became Africa in its entirety,
with its unitary will, the multiplicity of its social and political systems, its
divisions, its disagreements, its power and its impotence: he was not, nor could
he be, the hero of pan-Africanism: he was its martyr. His story has high-
lighted for everyone the profound link between independence, unity and the
struggle against the multinational corporations. His death—I remember that
Fanon in Rome was devastated by it—was a cry of alarm; in him, the whole
continent died and was resurrected. (252/200)

The hope of salvation, for Sartre, rested upon the realization of the infra-
structure of neocolonialism and its resistance in a series of interconnected
armed uprisings.
So by the period of Sartre’s commitment to third world radicalism he had
come to think of racism not as a situation, a dyad between individuals, or a
product of beliefs and ideas, but the substratum of a system of exploitation.
Torture, he argued, is merely the most vicious product of racial systems, bru-
tally enacting the cruel logic of racism, which begins with demeaning human
dignity, but whose violence also reveals the contradictions of a racial system.
Overcoming this violent system of oppression, Sartre preached, is only pos-
sible through a violent revolution whose redemptive bloodshed salves the
wounds of the oppressed and whose future wholeness is fashioned by their
commitment to overcome exploitation in the name of human freedom.
When those like Lumumba, keenly sensitive to the racism of the colonial
system, nonetheless only conceive their struggle in the narrow terms of
national liberation struggles rather than as tactical points within a neocolo-
nial global order, they are destined to fail. For Sartre’s vision had now broad-
ened to see that power rests with the owners of the means of production, the
military, and the lapdogs in the government who do their bidding, all of
whom are readily used and abused by multinational corporations.

Antiracist Alter-Globalization
By the middle of the 1960s, Sartre’s writing began to emphasize a new
modality of racism, connected to shifts in the global conditions of labor. The
24 Jonathan Judaken

another colonialism has been established on our own soil. We bring in

workers from poor European countries such as Spain and Portugal, or from
our old colonies to do the unpleasant work the French workers no longer
want to do. Underpaid, threatened with expulsion if they protest, and
crowded into filthy lodgings, it has been necessary to justify their overex-
ploitation which is now an important cog in the machine of French
capitalism. Thus a new racism has been born which would like the immi-
grants to live in terror, and to rob them of the desire to protest against the
living conditions that have been forced upon them.

Reading Sartre’s analysis after the November riots is haunting. “This

outburst is the inevitable result of the racism that has re-emerged during
the last ten years in the administration and the police and which originates
in the economy,” he fumed. He called upon the French to rise up against
this neoracism, to protest its institutionalization “by the power structure,” to
show that “a point of no return has been reached, that racism must be
crushed.” To fail to do so, he insisted, meant that we “deserve the govern-
ment of fear that the bourgeoisie gave us.”5
As we see, Sartre was intransigent in his impassioned remonstrations
against racism until his last days. But the theoretical underpinning of his
stances evolved over the course of his commitments. This chapter traces
that evolution, suggesting four overlapping phases to Sartre’s antiracist inter-
ventions.6 In so doing, I insist that both his blindnesses and insights have
much to teach us when it is still the case that, as one young Moroccan put it
in a discussion on French television about the fate of African immigrants in
France, “our color is our pain.”7 The color line at the dawn of the twenty-
first century is evidently still one of the great problems that define our age of
globalization. And there is still much to learn from Sartre about the differing
concepts he mobilized in order to name racism’s distinct modalities, about
how to assess racism, about where to target our critiques, and about how to
combat it.

Sartre’s Anti-antisemitism
Phase 1, Sartre’s anti-antisemitism, stemmed from his existential phenome-
nology, which he developed over the course of the 1930s. He was a lycée
teacher publishing philosophical treatises on the role of the imagination
and perception in consciousness when in 1933–34 he spent the academic
year in Germany just as Hitler rose to power. He returned to a France
increasingly polarized over fascism and antisemitism. Only the signposts of
the era can be mentioned here: the Stavinsky affair; the riots of February 6,
1934; the accession to power of the Popular Front (1936–1938), headed by
 Sartre on Racism 25

the first socialist and Jewish premier, Léon Blum. Blum embodied the asso-
ciative logic of stereotyping that enabled the opponents of the Popular Front
to tar the French Republic with a series of interchangeable epithets, exem-
plified by fascist Jacques Doriot’s condemning what he called the
“pluto-Judeo-Bolshevik coalition” that he claimed ruled France.8
Sartre’s response to this widespread antisemitic discourse was his first
overtly politicized work, the novella L’Enfance d’un chef (“The Childhood
of a Leader,” 1939).9 The story is an ironic Bildungsroman deeply critical
of the Action Française’s shock troops, the Camelots du roi,10 and the poli-
tics of the extreme Right more generally who defined their Frenchness
against the abject image of “the Jew.”11
The literary portrait of Lucien Fleurier, the would-be chef of the story
and the archetype of the salaud (bastard)— whom Sartre never tired of
decrying—would reach fruition in his famous theoretical treatise on anti-
semitism, Réflexions sur la question juive (Antisemite and Jew, 1946). His
“Portrait de l’antisémite,” Sartre’s phenomenological description of the
racial oppressor, was the first concrete application of the key existential
axioms regarding the relation of Self and Other articulated in L’Être et le
Néant (Being and Nothingness, 1943) and the crystallization of Sartre’s
anti-antisemitism.12 “The most striking feature of Sartre’s fight resides less
in his victory than in the new weapons he deploys,” Emmanuel Levinas
proclaimed in applauding Sartre’s essay, since “antisemitism is attacked
with existentialist arguments.”13
Sartre developed these existentialist arguments in his philosophical
magnum opus Being and Nothingness, which was, as the subtitle proclaims,
a “phenomenological essay on ontology.”14 Here he articulated the philo-
sophical underpinnings at work in his existential-phenomenological critique
of antisemitism and racism: his ontological description of human freedom,
his existential analysis of responsibility, and his concepts of “bad faith,” “the
situation,” and the dialectic of human recognition between Self and Other
engendered by “the look.” The first half of Being and Nothingness is
concerned with defining the central categories of Sartre’s ontology through
an elaboration of the distinction between the object world, which Sartre
calls the in-itself (être-en-soi) and the perceiving subject, which he names the
for-itself (être-pour-soi). There is also a third kind of being that Sartre
discusses, which occupies the second half of Being and Nothingness, being-
for-others (étre-pour-autrui).
The gaze determines the basic structure of being-for-others. I see others
and see them seeing me and know that they judge my choices. The Other’s
gaze turns me into an object in his/her world, a character in his/her life
drama, and thereby takes away my freedom to freely determine my own
essence. When I am looked at (être regardé), I become objectified and my
26 Jonathan Judaken

subjectivity is fixed by my being-for-others; this can be avoided by returning

the gaze and objectifying the Other. On the basis of this structure, Sartre
describes all concrete relations with others as forms of struggle. Indiffer-
ence is impossible: it is a mode of self-deception that refuses to see that
others gaze at me, a refusal to accept that I am alienated from my own objec-
tivity. My desire for this objectivity—my desire to be the foundation of my
own existence, to constitute my-self as an essence, to be an en-soi-pour-soi,
is the quintessence of self-deception or what Sartre calls mauvaise foi (bad
faith)—and it is animated by the human desire to be God. This desire creates
the inherent conflict in my concrete relations with others. There are funda-
mentally only two kinds of response to the gaze of Others: to make oneself
the kind of object that you would like to be perceived as (which in its severe
form Sartre names “masochism”) or to desire the pure instrumental appro-
priation of the Other (which in its ultimate manifestation is named
“sadism”). Masochism is the desire to be the object of the gaze of the other,
while sadism is the desire to objectify the other, achieved at its extreme
through violence.
In the final part of Being and Nothingness, Sartre concretizes this discus-
sion more explicitly around the relation between the antisemitic gaze and the
Jewish Other. It takes place in the context of a larger discussion about
“freedom and facticity: the situation.” In this section, he makes clear that the
conception of freedom that he is developing is not an abstract freedom
divorced from the strictures upon individual choices. Freedom is always situ-
ated and conditioned by the individual’s perceived “situation.” There are
specific factors that Sartre outlines that determine one’s situation: a persons
place in the world, their past, the environment, and all others that shape
their context.
In the subsection on “my fellowman” Sartre explicitly uses the example of
the relation between the antisemite and “the Jew” to explicate the struggle
for recognition and the objective limits of freedom in a situation:

It is only by my recognizing the freedom of antisemites (whatever use they may

make of it) and by my assuming this being-a-Jew that I am a Jew for them; it
is only thus that being-a-Jew will appear as the external objective limit of the
situation. If, on the contrary, it pleases me to consider the antisemites as pure
objects, then my being-a-Jew disappears immediately to give place to the
simple consciousness (of) being a free, unqualifiable transcendence. To recog-
nize others and, if I am a Jew, to assume my being-a-Jew are one and the
same. (675)

Sartre thus explains that a limit of the Jewish situation is the gaze of the
antisemitic Other, who defines “the Jew” in accord with an essence of being-
 Sartre on Racism 27

a-Jew. “The Jew,” can refuse this designation. However, “the Jew” cannot
deny that the antisemite perceives him as a Jew. The question for “the Jew”
becomes how s/he responds to this limit factor in his/her situation.
Sartre goes on to tackle this question: “How then shall I experience the
objective limits of my being: Jew, Aryan, ugly, handsome, kind, a civil
servant, untouchable, etc.?” The objectification of your being, the designa-
tion of your essence by an Other, does not define who you are for-yourself.
These labels conferred upon us by Others require “an interiorization and a
subjectivizing” (675). Every essence ascribed to us by others, Sartre categor-
ically insists, must be conferred with a meaning for us. In short, “a Jew is not
a Jew first in order to be subsequently ashamed or proud; it is his pride of
being a Jew, his shame, or his indifference which will reveal to him his being-
a-Jew; and this being-a-Jew is nothing outside the free manner of adopting
it” (677). In other words, the Jewish situation is like the condition of all
humans for whom there are objective conditions which structure our
choices—class, race, place, the body, and the gaze of the Other. But ulti-
mately these only have the meaning that an individual confers upon them.
The difference for “the Jew” is that this meaning is always doubled: it is a
question not only of the meaning of human existence, but what it means to
be-a-Jew, and how this shapes one’s humanity.
While Sartre’s mention of Jews and Judaism are relatively scant in the
body of his enormous ontological description of the human condition, he is
explicit about its implications for the antisemite and draws some provisional
conclusions for Jews. The antisemite’s bad faith is that he wants to be God:
to have an absolute foundation for the meaning of his existence. As such, he
embodies the quintessence of bad faith by seeking to found his essence in
his sadistic appropriation of “the Jew,” which at its extreme leads to a
violent hatred for “the Jew,” that at bottom is a hatred of all alterity. “The
Jew” must respond to his situation by defining the meaning of his Jewishness
and his humanity—always a double responsibility—knowing that Others
will define his choices in part by how they perceive “the Jew,” thus conferring
upon Jews the facticity of their being-a-Jew.
Antisemite and Jew would elaborate upon what Sartre had sketched as
examples in his ontological description, applying systematically for the first
time the categories of Being and Nothingness to a concrete situation. Sartre
argued that antisemitism does not rest solely upon economic, historical,
religious, or political foundations, but rather demands an existential analysis
of the antisemite and “the Jew.” In undertaking this examination, he argued
that the fundamental cause of antisemitism is the mauvaise foi (bad faith)
of the antisemite: his fear and flight from the human condition.15 Rather
than face his own finitude and freedom, the antisemite, like Lucien in “The
Childhood of a Leader,” adopts in advance a “certain idea of the Jew, of his
28 Jonathan Judaken

nature and of his role in society” (14/13) and through a process of projec-
tion and transference chooses himself through this image. In accord with a
Manichean logic, he defines himself through abjection, opposing his identity
to the impurity, depravity, corruption, pollution, impiety, ugliness, untruth,
racial deviance, urbanity, or foreignness of “the Jew,” whom he deems
threatens essential Frenchness.16 Through this negative image, the antisemite
explains his experience of the world. With this model of the degraded and
perverse Other, he “is under no necessity to look for his personality within
himself. He has chosen . . . to be nothing save the fear he inspires in others”
(24/21). Antisemitism consequently boils down to a “basic fear of oneself
and of truth” (21/19), a fear of all humans’ fundamental ontological
freedom. Antisemitism is therefore the paradigmatic form of bad faith in the
face of the human condition.
On the basis of these axioms, the Réflexions instantiated several key theo-
rems of Sartre’s antiracism: first, that there is no biological, cultural, or
metaphysical reality to “race”; it is a social construct.17 Second, Sartre was
nonetheless aware that “race” for the racist is constitutive of reality. As such,
he called racism a “passion” whose bad faith is akin to religious faith and
therefore not amenable to any rational evidence that opposes the racist’s
Manichean and conspiratorial logic.18 Third, Sartre’s Réflexions also casti-
gated what he labeled the “politics of assimilation”19—the Enlightenment
and liberal tradition that defined Franco-Judaism and Jewish emancipa-
tion — contending that it ultimately eliminated Jewishness through its
universal and abstract principles that did not recognize Jewish difference. He
thus decried any polity based upon homogeneity, normalization, or what
goes by the name today in France of intégration. Fourth, conjoined to this
proposition, Sartre also announced that the fight against racism must be
waged in the name of liberty, not based on the abstract axioms of liber-
alism (i.e., human rights, constitutionalism, equality of opportunity, equality
before the law, etc.), but rather on the existential conception of freedom at
the root of human existence. And finally, he maintained that the primary
responsibility to combat antisemitism lay with the dominant culture whose
own freedom was contingent upon the freedom of all in their midst. “The
fate of the Jews is his fate. Not one Frenchman will be free,” he thundered
at the conclusion of his Réflexions, “so long as the Jews do not enjoy the full-
ness of their rights” (185/153).20

Anticolonialist Existential Humanism

Beyond the occasional allusion to his Réflexions, and his involvement in the
Arab-Israeli conflict, Sartre would write little about the Jewish Question in
the period from 1945 to 1960.21 This second phase of his antiracism was
 Sartre on Racism 29

nonetheless significantly indebted to his critique of antisemitism. “Replace

the Jew with the Black, the antisemite with the supporter of slavery,” he
claimed, “and there would be nothing essential to be cut from my book [on
the Jewish Question].”22 The phase of anticolonialist existential humanism
was based primarily on developing a key axiom in L’existentialisme est un
humanisme (Existentialism is a Humanism, 1946) where Sartre maintained,
“if existence really does precede essence, man is responsible for what he is
. . . and when we say that a man is responsible for himself, we do not only
mean that he is responsible for his own individuality, but that he is respon-
sible for all men.”23 This claim—that each individual’s freedom is dependent
upon the freedom of all—made clear the meaning of the concluding lines
of the Réflexions.
This imperative underlay his antiracist anticolonialism, which figured
racial oppression as a central lever in (colonial) domination in his occasional
writings on racism in America (1945), in La Putain respectueuse (The
Respectful Prostitute, 1946), in his excursus on “The Oppression of Blacks
in the United States,” in Cahiers pour une morale (Notebooks for an Ethics,
1947–1948), in “Présence noire” (“Black Presence,” 1947), “Orphée noir”
(“Black Orpheus,” 1948), and in most of his other early writings on colo-
nialism and decolonization gathered in Situations V (Colonialism and
Neo-Colonialism, 1964). We will consider only a few examples from this
period to establish further key theorems of Sartre’s antiracism.
In the immediate postwar period, Sartre’s existential phenomenological
analysis of antisemitism would be applied to the racial oppression of blacks
in many of the same terms that structured his scrutiny of antisemitism. His
key concepts remained freedom, responsibility, bad faith, the situation, and
the dialectic of human recognition engendered by the gaze. In “Retour des
États Unis: Ce qui j’ai appris du problème noir” (“Return from the United
States,” 1945), the structure of the look still defined his philosophical assess-
ment of the situation of black Americans. Sartre described how under Jim
Crow blacks were treated as “untouchables” who when you “cross them in
the streets . . . you do not return their stares. Or if by chance their eyes meet
yours, it seems to you that they do not see you and it is better for them and
you that you pretend not to have noticed them.” 24 Blacks function like
“machines”: they serve whites; they shine their shoes and operate their eleva-
tors. To Sartre, this was the ultimate example of the sadistic reification of the
Other and its attendant bad faith and alienation that he had assessed in
Being in Nothingness and had applied to the situation of Jews.25
But a new element began to emerge in Sartre’s discussions of racism in the
United States. He started to address the institutionalized oppression of
blacks: their differential treatment as citizens with no rights, who live in a
state of “semislavery” (87) in the South, with only slightly better conditions
30 Jonathan Judaken

in the segregated North. Segregation provided the legal framework for the
separation of populations and for blacks’ unequal access to education,
services, goods, housing, healthcare, theaters, restaurants, cinemas, and
libraries with the effect that “the majority of them live in horrible misery”
(84). Sartre described the material conditions of subordination and disen-
franchisement resulting from “the economic structure of the country,”
insisting that “it is that which one must examine first” (87). Thus, while he
had discussed economic factors in his assessment of antisemitism in his
Réflexions, it was in his writings on the conditions of African-Americans in
the United States that he first went into some detail about where and how
racialized subjects live, which he maintained conditioned the racial state.26
Sartre would elaborate upon the institutionalized oppression of blacks in
the United States in an excursus included in his Notebooks for an Ethics.27
Addressing the domination of blacks under slavery, he sought to explain
how through legal prescriptions covering matrimony, civic and military
duties, and through the governing norms of social interaction, the legaliza-
tion of oppression makes it seem legitimate. Making racial oppression lawful
puts it in a realm beyond discussion, making it sacred, and therefore part of
the natural order of things. In articulating this argument, Sartre distin-
guishes violence, which “cannot be defined apart from some relation to the
laws that it violates (human or natural laws)” from oppression. Oppression
is institutional: “It suffices that the oppressing class legitimate its oppression
by law and that the oppressed class, out of weakness, complicity, ignorance,
or any other reason, obeys these laws and implicitly or explicitly recognizes
them through its behavior” (579/561).
Sartre was stumbling toward seeing race not as an idea, but as an
ideology, not only as a phenomenon of consciousness, but as a product of
behaviors, practices, rituals, folkways, and symbols institutionalized daily. In
this he anticipated the argument of Barbara Fields, among others, that
slavery created racism (and not the other way around), since people are more
readily perceived as inferior by nature when they are already seen as
oppressed.28 In short, for Sartre, “the abject institution of slavery, lived
through, reworked, and rearranged,” transformed “itself into a concrete rela-
tion, a type of existence, a social architecture” (583/564–65) that structured
social relationships and thereby provided the oppressor with a good
conscience.
But the analysis of the institutional character of slavery did not supplant
the dialectic of the gaze that underpinned the existential phenomenology of
racism. With a copy of Gunnar Myrdal’s An American Dilemma at hand as
the springboard upon which many of his reflections are constructed,29 Sartre
still focused on the different modalities of the bad faith of slavery. Slave
masters justified the institution by claiming that it was blacks who sold other
 Sartre on Racism 31

blacks into slavery; they deployed the Hamitic myth; they suggested that
Africans were not Christians and therefore not privy to the same ethical
norms; in short, they contended that blacks were “submen” (580/562–63).
The concepts of Being and Nothingness are still apparent, as Sartre exam-
ined how under slavery and segregation the for-itself “freezes the other into
an object” (581/563). He also described the “limited transcendence” of
both master and slave.
Nevertheless he clearly sought to go beyond the limits of the Hegelian
dialectic as well.30 “In reality, Hegel saw just one side of the slave: his labor,”
Sartre claimed. As a result, “his whole theory is wrong, or rather it applies
to the proletarian, not to the slave” (586/566). Sartre, like Marx, therefore
flipped Hegel on his head when he asserted that “oppression is institutional”
because it functions through a set of norms and rules that make possible “a
certain way of living out a relation with the other” (589/570). Antiracism
thus depended upon transforming the structures of oppression, which them-
selves conditioned the structures of perception. “To see clearly in an
unjustifiable situation,” Sartre averred in an arresting formulation, “it is not
sufficient that the oppressor look at it openly and honestly, he must also
change the structure of his eyes” (590–91/571).
But Sartre’s antiracism would continue to focus primarily on dismantling
racist structures of perception in this period, as is apparent in “Black
Orpheus,” his famous celebration of negritude poetry written as a preface to
Léopold Sédar Senghor’s Anthologie de la nouvelle poésie nègre et malgache
de langue française (Anthology of African and West Indian Poets Writing in
French).31 As “Black Orpheus” makes plain, much of his early writing on
colonialism would continue to revolve around the same conflict that he char-
acterized for Jews: the struggle with how the dominant culture imposes
itself, how this is internalized, and how colonial subjects can liberate them-
selves. In “Black Orpheus,” however, he did take a more definitive step in
the direction of the argument that defined his politics in the postwar period:
the demand that the writer reveal the world from the perspective of the
oppressed.32 The standpoint of “the Jew,” “the African,” the colonized, and
the worker offer a critical lens through which to view the system of oppres-
sion.
Similar to his Réflexions, “Black Orpheus” positioned the intellectual as
a critic of established values and norms, which exclude and repress through
the pathologization and exploitation of the subaltern. There are homolo-
gies in his analysis of blackness and Jewishness. Both are defined by what
they oppose: racial oppression and antisemitism. Negritude is a critique of
the cultural discourses and institutional practices and policies that repress
the African in the European world. Since race is intrinsic to their oppression,
Sartre is emphatic that blacks must first be made conscious of their race
32 Jonathan Judaken

and therefore, “anti-racist racism is the only road that will lead to the aboli-
tion of racial differences” (xiv/18). In a counterpart to his discussion of
authentic Jewishness, since the oppression of blacks has depended upon the
vilification of blackness, there must first be a moment of pride in being
black. As Abiola Irele incisively put it, “Sartre’s term [“antiracist racism”]
therefore meant a negro racial pride designed to destroy racialism itself.”33
Sartre does, however, emphasize a difference of degree between the alien-
ation of Jews and blacks, for “a Jew—a white man among white men—can
deny that he is a Jew, can declare himself a man among men. The Negro
cannot deny that he is a Negro, nor can he claim that he is part of some
abstract colorless humanity: he is black” (xiv/18). But while the possibility
of assimilation is thus greater for Jews, as he maintained in his Réflexions,
it is ultimately destined to fail. In a fashion not dissimilar to what Sartre
described for Jews, repressed by European culture, blacks develop what
W.E.B. Du Bois called “double-consciousness”34 and what Sartre describes
as the split consciousness of their “double exile” (xvi/20). Exiles from Africa,
they are exiled within Europe. Sartre calls negritude “Orphic because the
negro’s tireless descent into himself makes me think of Orpheus going to
claim Eurydice from Pluto” (xvii/22). This Orphic journey into the self is
undertaken “to ruin systematically the European knowledge he has acquired,
and this spiritual destruction symbolizes the great future taking-up of arms
by which black men will destroy their chains” (xviii/22).
One of the radically new claims of “Black Orpheus” is that if blacks
have nothing to lose but their chains, this will depend upon negritude writers
deconstructing how blackness is figured within the semiotic system of the
West. Sartre’s semiology of the racialized Other as a sign within the system
of colonial oppression thereby anticipated certain deconstructive and post-
colonial analyses. Since he is writing about black Francophone poets, he
argues that these diasporic critics must use the oppressor’s language for their
resistance, utilizing the master’s tools to dismantle his house.35 Negritude
poets exploit the failures of European culture to name black experience
and this misunderstanding, Sartre claims, facilitates our ability to see the
whole civilization and its discontents.
Negritude poetry pushes the French poetic tradition from Mallamé’s
symbolism to surrealism that is about the “autodestruction of language”
(xx/25) in new directions. Negritude writers traverse the “short-circuits of
language” (xx/26) because within the semantic field that defines the key
terms of colonial and racial discourse — exile/home, black/white, and
native/colonist—there are already prescripted positions of hierarchy and
subordination. Negritude negates the semiotics of whiteness, which is iden-
tified with humanity, light, truth, virtue, essence, and spirit, as opposed to
the carnal flesh, inessential, deviant, dark bestiality of blackness. Negritude
 Sartre on Racism 33

poetry upsets this hierarchy by valorizing the secondary and inferior terms.
There is thus a self-destruction of the semiotic system in negritude, analo-
gous to Duchamp’s art and surrealism. Negritude is thus a poetry of
negativity: a refusal and destabilization of colonial and racist signification,
upsetting and reorienting our concepts of blackness.
Sartre argues, however, that because their critique happens in language,
negritude poets are destined to reestablish “the hierarchy they have just
upset” (xxii/27). But just as was the case with his writing on Jewishness,
where he recycles certain antisemitic motifs,36 Sartre contributes to this
restabilization by unproblematically accepting stereotypical conceptions of
blackness and Africa. As Stuart Zane Charmé acutely puts it:

Repeating the same strategy that had produced Antisemite and Jew, Sartre
remained on the level of myth or symbol rather than history. Like the Jew, the
black’s primary mythic function was to embody simultaneously the victimiza-
tion by, and the negation of, white European culture and the colonialism it
supported.37

Sartre’s depiction of blackness as the negation of white supremacy serves to

destabilize white, European, bourgeois hegemony. In the process, however,
he reinscribes typological constructions of blackness that figure for him the
negativity of European values.38 He thus identifies “the black” with primi-
tivism and he resorts to images of blacks as natural man and unchaste
woman whose identification with nature and Eros have an emancipatory
function not only for blacks, but also for repressed Europeans. Sartre says,
for example, that the blacks “wild and free looks that judge our world”
(x/14) do so by plunging “man back into the seething breast of Nature”
(xxv/31). Blacks have “timeless instincts, a simple manifestation of universal
and eternal fecundity” (xxxviii/46). His identification of blacks with nature,
sexuality, a phallic order, instinct, creation, and rhythm are justified by him
as a necessary stage within what he calls “Universal History.”
But this ultimately mired Sartre’s patronage of negritude in the quagmires
that result from his strategic essentialism—his “antiracist racism”—that he
advanced as a means to undo racialism. In Peau noire, masques blancs
(Black Skin, White Masks, 1952), Frantz Fanon sharply criticized Sartre for
failing to condemn some of his hackneyed images of blackness. Fanon
blamed the effacing of what he called “the lived experience of blackness”
on Sartre’s dialectic with its totalizing and universalizing logic that he
construed as the foundational problem in Sartre’s writing on behalf of the
black Other.39 The historical specificity of the Other, “the lived experience
of blackness,” is sacrificed to a mythological and ahistorical depiction within
the logic of Sartre’s dialectic. Fanon’s rejoinder served as a warning that
34 Jonathan Judaken

when Sartre abandoned his existentialist premises, even doing so for

strategic political ends elucidated by his dialectic of history, he risked falling
into the trap of racist discourse.
Sartre’s other early anticolonial writings would elaborate on the need for
avoiding these traps through the demystification of stereotyping that he
referred to as “the picturesque” in his preface to Henri Cartier-Bresson’s
D’une Chine à l’autre (“From One China to Another,” 1954).40 Stereotyping
“scorned collectively” (7/17). Cartier-Bresson’s virtue was to provide snap-
shots of a society in transition that exploded the exoticism and “convenient
label[s]” (9/18) of typologies. Assedine Haddour thus rightly praises Sartre
for prefiguring “the arguments of Roland Barthes in ‘Myth Today’ and
Edward Said in Orientalism, i.e. [criticizing] the fabricated quality of the
mythic idea and its orientalizing intent.”41 This is crucial, for as Sartre main-
tained, “What separates has to be learned; what unites can be seen in an
instant” (12/20). He concluded the piece by rejoicing in the Chinese revolu-
tion that Cartier-Bresson’s album documented as it moved from the
countryside into the municipal capitals of China, since it offered hope
for overcoming the archipelago of “capitals of poverty” that defined the
Third World.
Sartre’s antiracist anticolonialism thus elaborated upon some of the
perceptive pronouncements of his anti-antisemitism at the same time that
he expanded his conception of racism. The keystone of this phase was his
leap from his earlier emphasis on individual existential freedom toward his
existential humanism, insisting that the freedom of the individual is depen-
dent upon the freedom of all. Second, while he continued to hold that the
kernel of racism is the sadistic reification of the other in an effort to deny
their freedom, he also clarified that seeing things from the perspective of the
marginalized and oppressed helps to divulge the structures of oppression in
a society. Third, he asserted that a first step to overcoming racism by racial-
ized groups is to embrace their collective identity as part of the struggle
against racism; an “antiracist racism” was thus necessary to destroy
racialism. But antiracism on the basis of a strategic essentialism also risked
reduplicating racism, unless it was marshaled as part of a committed effort
to explode the racial order as a whole. Fourth, as such Sartre venerated the
novel efforts of poets and writers to deconstruct the semiotics of race in
order to detonate the stereotypes that underpin racism. But it was in his
immediate postwar writings on racism in the United States that Sartre first
broached axioms that would shape the next phase of his reflections on
racism. Here, he schematically explored how oppression was institutional-
ized and as such how racism was part of the social architecture. He
contended that racism was not only conditional upon the stereotypes or
roles that are assigned to oppressed groups, but is woven into the fabric of
 Sartre on Racism 35

practices, rituals, symbols, and institutions that structure social systems.

Antiracism thus depends upon transforming the structures of oppression,
which themselves condition structures of perception.

Third World Radicalism

By the late 1950s, as Sartre’s defense of the Algerian revolution became more
unbridled and as the conflict became more violent on both sides, the terms
of his understanding of racism changed more clearly in the direction of an
emphasis on racialized social structures. A transitional text was his preface
to Albert Memmi’s classic analysis Portrait du colonisé précédé du colonisa-
teur (The Colonizer and the Colonized, 1957).42 Sartre commended
Memmi’s inquiry, which is clearly modeled on Sartre’s intersubjective
dialectic of the gaze. Memmi’s existential premises concerning freedom and
authenticity in a specific situation are also derived from Sartrean precepts.
The Réflexions also remained foundational for the two portraits Memmi
draws: the colonizer is not unlike the portrait of the antisemite and the situ-
ation of the colonized overlaps with Sartre’s portrait of “the Jew.” But Sartre
is nevertheless critical of Memmi’s subtle psychological depiction of the
dynamic relationship within colonization and how this results in the interi-
orization of colonial hegemony. “The whole difference between us arises,”
Sartre asserts in a critical footnote, “because he sees a situation where I see
a system” (27/xxv).
Sartre had made this shift in his thinking by the time of his speech “Colo-
nialisme est une système” (“Colonialism is a System,” 1956), which reflected
the subsuming of his existential-phenomenological analysis within his devel-
oping existential Marxist framework. In his remarks made at a protest rally
held at the Salle Wagram against continuing the war in Algeria he stressed,
“Colonization is neither a series of chance occurrences nor the statistical
result of thousands of individual undertakings,” or choices in isolated situa-
tions. “It is a system,” he continued, “which was put in place around the
middle of the nineteenth century, began to bear fruit in about 1880, [and]
started to decline after the First World War.”43
In the third phase of his antiracist works, Sartre described the mecha-
nisms and material effects of colonial exploitation in far more detail than his
earlier writing on institutionalized racism in the United States. He labored
to show that each of the signs of the European civilizing mission — the
roads, French schools, and public heath and hygiene—were, in fact, means
for colonial domination.44 But nothing was more central to the colonial
system than the systematic dispossession of Arab land and the concomitant
mechanization of colonial agriculture. Colonial exploitation was thus expe-
rienced as “methodical and rigorous: expelled from their lands, restricted to
36 Jonathan Judaken

unproductive soil, obliged to work for derisory wages, the fear of unem-
ployment discourages . . . [colonial] revolts” (37/39). Consequently, for many
Algerians, their only alternative was to emigrate to France where they
worked to send back money to support their families in Algeria. Sartre thus
explained, as Tony Smith sums it up, “the congruence between economic
spoliation, cultural imperialism, and political domination of the native
Muslims by the French invaders and colonizers . . . where cultural antago-
nism compounded class struggle with aspects of race warfare.”45
Sartre’s shift from the analysis of the colonial “situation” to a “system”
carried over into his understanding of racism. If capitalism had to become
colonialist to expand its markets and the sources of its raw materials, its
ideological justification was liberalism, which purported to uphold
universal human rights that could only logically be denied Algerians in light
of a racist rationale.46 “One of the functions of racism,” Sartre therefore
claimed “is to compensate the latent universalism of bourgeois liberalism.”
Hence “since all human beings have the same rights, the Algerian will be
made subhuman” (CS, 44/45).
But in his preface to Memmi, he made clear that the racist rationale is
itself a function of the system of exploitation: “Colonialism denies human
rights to human beings whom it has subdued by violence, and keeps them by
force in a state of misery and ignorance that Marx would rightly call a
subhuman condition. Racism is ingrained in action, institutions, and in the
nature of the colonialist methods of production and exchange” (26/xxiv).
While racism operates psychically, conditioning how we perceive and receive
the Other, serving to dehumanize colonial and racialized subjects so that
human rights and equality need not be extended to them, Sartre’s point
now is unequivocally that racism is enmeshed in the power structure and
material system of oppression itself. Discrimination functions not only
cognitively and intersubjectively, but within institutions and everyday prac-
tices and policies. The racist colonial system “is embodied in a million
colonists, children and grandchildren of colonists, who have been shaped
by colonialism and who think, speak and act according to the very principles
of the colonial system” (CS, 43/44). The racist system therefore shaped both
the colonized and the colonizer, infecting all “with its racism” (CS, 47/47).
This was nowhere more apparent than in the methods that were used by the
French to pacify resistance to colonialization.
Sartre responded to the reciprocal reign of terror that began to charac-
terize the French-Algerian conflict by the time of the Battle of Algiers (1957)
by insisting that torture was a product of systemic violence and dehuman-
ization that in turn produced inhuman acts. This could only be overcome
through a revolution against the system of exploitation that might restore
our humanity. In “Vous êtes formidables” (“You are Wonderful”), he insisted
 Sartre on Racism 37

that all who failed to denounce “the cynical and systematic use of absolute
violence,” which included “pillaging, rape, reprisals against the civilian
population, summary executions, [and the] use of torture to extract confes-
sions or information” were complicitous with the system because none could
deny ignorance.47
He goes on to analyze the different modalities of elision, evasion, and
denial about torture in liberal societies that nonetheless produced a “trou-
bled conscience” that ultimately cannot repress “the game of hide and seek
that we play, the lamps that we dim, this painful bad faith” (65/60). All
who fail to rail against torture are blameworthy of what Jaspers in The
Question of German Guilt called the “metaphysical guilt” of those who
acquiesce when categorical injustice is committed in their name: “False
naiveté, flight, bad faith, solitude, silence, a complicity at once rejected and
accepted, that is what we called, in 1945, collective responsibility” (66/60),
he reminded his readers.
In his introduction to Henri Alleg’s La Question (The Question, 1958), he
would elaborate on how torture was the ossification of a system of exploita-
tion whose connective tissue was racism.48 “In this way,” Sartre expounded
about torture, “exploitation puts the exploiter at the mercy of his victim, and
the dependence itself begets racialism” (120/32). He explained that torture
is not really about producing information, but instead is about destroying
human dignity (118/30), which ultimately is the only thing that can legiti-
mate the system of exploitation. The purpose of torture is not to make a
person talk, but “rather to humiliate them, to crush their pride and drag
them down to animal level. The body may live, but the spirit must be killed.
To train, discipline and chastise; these are the words which obsess” the
torturers Sartre insists (121/33).
Torture is merely the most brutal and crude mechanism in the system of
domination. In this sense, “Torture was simply the expression of racial
hatred” (121/33), just as racial hatred was the means to justify treating some
people as animals or cogs in a machine. As such, torture ultimately ends up
destroying the human being who hates, just as exploitation cannot but result
in enmeshing the exploiter, for “hate is a magnetic field: it has . . . corroded
them and enslaved them [both]” (122/34). In the end then, torture reveals the
limits and the ends of systemic exploitation and how racism was imbricated
within it: “Torture was imposed here by circumstances and demanded by
racial hatred. In some ways it is the essence of the conflict and expresses its
deepest truth” (124–25/36).
In short, by the late 1950s, Sartre conceived of racism not as a mythical
blinder that legitimates oppression; he argued that it is a central pillar in the
structure of exploitation itself. The conception of the institutionalization of
racism and its enmeshment in the system of production and exchange goes
38 Jonathan Judaken

beyond the terms of his earlier reflections on antisemitism and his support
of the negritude negation of colonialism, elaborating on what he first
explored in his writing on racism in the United States, reaching full fruition
in his existential Marxist writings.
The theoretical elaboration of his existentialist Marxist position was
most developed in Critique de la raison dialectique (Critique of Dialectical
Reason, 1960), where a new series of concepts governed Sartre’s analysis:
dialectical history, praxis, the practico-inert, totalization, and seriality.49 The
Critique sought to explain how humans make history and in turn are made
by that history. Or as Sartre put it, he wanted to explain the “permanent and
dialectical unity of freedom and necessity.” Developing what he called after
Henri Lefebvre the progressive-regressive method, dialectical history moved
back and forth between the social totality and the individual in search of the
mediations that could account for historical configurations. Humans are
always set in specific situations, which they interpret and act upon. This
“subjective process of self-definition through action in the world” defines
praxis, which as Martin Jay explains, translates Sartre’s notion of the for-
itself in Being and Nothingness into the terms of the Critique. The accumu-
lated result of human action is the practico-inert. “Like Marx’s concept of
capital as dead labor or Sartre’s own earlier notion of the in-itself,” Jay elab-
orates, “the practico-inert confronts man as an irreducible other, despite his
role in its creation.”50 Most people thus lead atomized, alienated lives, an
existence that Herbert Marcuse called the life of “one-dimensional man,”
where they do little more than internalize the dead existence of the practico-
inert, satisfied with themselves as the reified incarnation of prescripted social
functions. Collective existence is thus dominated by what Sartre called seri-
ality. “ ‘Serial’ collectives are agglomerations of human beings,” William
McBride explains, “engaged in some enterprise to which a common name
can be given but which far from unifying them, reinforces their isolation.”51
Racism, Sartre maintains, is a part of “a praxis illuminated by a ‘theory’
(‘biological,’ ‘social,’ or empirical racism, it does not matter which) aiming to
keep the masses in a state of molecular aggregation” (721).
Abstracting from his specific interventions into the Algerian conflict, but
also reflecting on Nazi and Stalinist antisemitism, Sartre tried to elucidate
what he now called “the seriality of racism” (652). Internal to the supraex-
ploitation of colonialism was violence and appropriation that was justified
through the self-reinforcing logic of racism. In the terms of the Critique,
Sartre enumerated its unfolding: it begins as a

structure of alienation in the practico-inert, it is actualized as praxis in colo-

nization; and its (temporary) victory presents itself as the objectification of the
practical ensemble (army, capitalists, commodity merchants, colonialists) in a
 Sartre on Racism 39

practico-inert system where it represents the fundamental structure of reci-

procity between the colonialists and the colonized. (720)

This “serial exis” is engraved in the practices and institutions of the lived
world, where the colonialist or antisemite “lives on an ‘Island of Doctor
Moreau,’ surrounded by terrifying beasts created in the image of man, but
botched” (720). Since the racial oppressor lives constantly with a paranoid
vision that those subhumans — demonized, bestialized, and racialized to
justify colonial oppression or antisemitism—are dangerous and violent, he
presents the everyday violence of the racial system as well as any extreme
measures that might become necessary as a legitimate self-defense to the
threat of the racial other.
This criminalization of the victim engenders in turn a new mechanism of
common praxis that takes the form of “agitation, publicity, the diffusion of
information . . . campaigns, slogans, the muted orchestration of terror as an
accompaniment to orders, ‘stuffing people’s heads’ with propaganda, etc.”
(642). The machinery of racial indoctrination disseminated through the
mass media, inculcated in educational apparatuses, and incorporated into
ordinary habits turns racism into an invisible practice of everyday norms. So
“the hatred which these dummies excited in everyone belonged to the Other;
but totalizing propaganda constituted this hatred into other-direction as an
exigency of a totalizing ceremony” (653). Everyone within the system comes
to internalize the crimes that belong to no one in particular, so collective
responsibility is avoided as “serial responsibility” (654). When the material
conditions of life become such that life itself becomes impossible for those
whose domination is justified by racism, the only solution is revolt: “The
only possible way out was to confront total negation with total negation,
violence with equal violence; to negate dispersal and atomization by an
initially negative unity whose content would be defined in struggle” (733).
The crystallization of Sartre’s third world radicalism saw revolutionary
violence as the solution to institutionalized exploitation undergirded by
racism. This point of departure was apparent not only in his campaign
against the French-Algerian war, but in his opposition to the Vietnam war,
his support of revolutionary movements in Latin America, especially the
Cuban revolution, and most emphatic in his “Préface aux Damnés de la
terre” (preface to The Wretched of the Earth, 1961) and his “Lumumba et
le néo-colonialisme” (“The Political Thought of Patrice Lumumba,” 1963).
The clearest exemplar of this new phase in Sartre’s antiracism is his intro-
duction to Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, which echoed Fanon’s call for
a revolutionary uprising of the Third World against Western culture in
order to discover its authentic subjectivity through revolutionary violence.
The camps of the opposing forces in the apocalyptic scene that Sartre draws
40 Jonathan Judaken

this time are not determined by the dialectics of the gaze, but by the struggle
for power itself, defined by control over limited resources.52
Sartre heralded a new generation of anticolonialist writers who expressed
the contradictions of colonialism by showing that European moral princi-
ples and codes of conduct and the material lives of colonized peoples “did
not hang together, and that [the colonized] could neither reject them
completely nor yet assimilate them” (10/8). Sartre insisted that while Fanon
spoke exclusively to the wretched of the earth Europeans should read the
book because it explained how we are “estranged from ourselves,” since in
defining the non-European, Europeans do not only alienate and subjugate
others. “It is enough that they show us what we have made of them for us
to realize what we have made of ourselves,” Sartre exclaims. The dehuman-
ization and ostracism of racialized others, what Sartre describes as “their
scars and . . . their chains,” (14/13) are therefore part and parcel of the
creation of European identity and hegemony.
Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth consequently reveals how the West has
shaped the rest of the modern world. His advocacy of violence is justified
as the return of the repressed violence of colonialism deflected back upon the
West, playing out in geo-political terms Sartre’s earlier description of the
inherent violence of intersubjectivity. Sartre reaffirms, “we only become
what we are by the radical and deep-seated refusal of that which others have
made us” (16/17). This is the key premise that animates the Sartrean
dialectic of authenticity first applied in the Réflexions. But it also discloses
what Sartre’s existentialism shares with Marxism encapsulated in Marx’s
comment in The Eighteenth Brumaire that “men make their own history, but
they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circum-
stances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered,
given and transmitted from the past.”53 Sartre’s Critique was the extended
elaboration of how this functions. His preface to Fanon urged that Euro-
peans support the revolutionary blowback from the colonial encounter, for
“we in Europe too are being decolonized: that is to say that the settler which
is in every one of us is being savagely rooted out” (22/24). The “boomerang”
(19/20) of colonial revolt was the restorative violence of “man recreating
himself,” (19/21) and in the face of it, Sartre recommended that Europeans
“stand in judgment” (26/31) of themselves and side with the revolution that
will bring about the final liberation of all humanity, not only from racism
but from all structures of oppression.
Sartre’s “Lumumba et le néo-colonialisme” (“The Political Thought of
Patrice Mumumba,” 1963) more cogently, but just as emphatically, wove
together an account of systemic economic structures and racial oppression.
It also celebrated revolutionary violence as necessary to forge a solution.
Thus, Lumumba and Fanon are hailed together as the “two great dead men
 Sartre on Racism 41

[who] represent Africa. Not only their nations: all of their continent.”54
The preface to Lumumba’s political speeches was an effort to analyze his rise
and fall and to offer an account of why, ultimately, he was murdered.
Lumumba, for Sartre, was a “black Robespierre,” (219/175) caught in the
contradictions of his own Jacobin desire to centralize and unify the Congo,
while only dimly aware of the structural forces of neocolonialism that ended
up destroying him. He embodied the inconsistencies of colonialism and the
paradoxes of the anticolonial struggle, but he had the potential to “stir up
the people against neocapitalist mystification,” which was why he had to
die (247/196). Educated first by Catholic and then Protestant missionaries,
incorporated into the colonial civil service, he realized at the age of twenty
that he had already reached his zenith: “Above all the blacks, he would
always remain beneath the whites” (202/162). Lumumba lived the contra-
dictions of his elite status as black in a segregated and racist society:

The registered black had no more right than the unregistered to enter European
towns, unless he was working there; like them, he could not evade the curfew;
when he went shopping, he met them again at the special counter reserved for
blacks; like them he was a victim of segregationist practices on every occasion
and in every place. (203/163)

Sartre was clear that he now thought economic exploitation was the cause
of this racist segregation. He was categorical that the suffering from the
daily toil for their master’s benefit was worse than the pain of racist discrim-
ination, since prejudice and inequity was a consequence of the extraction of
surplus labor.
In his singular emphasis on a political solution to national independence
however, Lumumba, failed to see the forest for the trees, which would have
necessitated fusing his political struggle to a social revolution like that waged
in Vietnam, Cuba, Angola, and Algeria. It was only a movement created
through a revolutionary uprising, where “the oppressors violence begets
counter-violence which at the same time turns against the enemy and against
the divisions that play the enemy’s game” that the cleavages of the Congo
and in turn of Africa could be overcome (228/181). Sartre did not mince
words. One could only eliminate the vestiges of the old order “through
persuasion, political education, and if necessary, through terror” (228/182).
Terror was thus legitimated as the weapon of the weak.
Lumumba’s failure ultimately meant that what happened in the Congo
would be repeated in Africa as a whole, which was already an iteration of
the neocolonialism that stymied Latin America and the Caribbean. A new
indigenous elite, who conspired in Lumumba’s downfall, would replace the
old government but remain completely dependent upon the Europeans and
 Sartre on Racism 43

contours of this fourth phase can be gleaned from his opposition to

apartheid in South Africa. On November 9, 1966, he participated with
Emmanuel d’Astier de la Vigerie and Jean-Jacques Félice in a press confer-
ence that was followed by a public gathering organized by the Comité de
liaison contre l’aparheid. Sartre’s intervention fulminated against what he
said, “is today a cancer that risks becoming in a short period of time a gener-
alized cancer: it is apartheid practiced systematically by South Africa.”
Apartheid was, therefore, a specific social arrangement of ideas, practices,
and institutions that could spread globally.
Sartre obviously identified the essential element of apartheid as “integral
racism and the absolute superiority of whites.” But, he persisted, “This
doctrine is born of the facts themselves: the necessity to procure cheap
labor.” Apartheid was, consequently, an ideology that was “nothing more
than the very product of the economy and of [a system of racist] practice[s].
But it rebounds on itself, since it makes the white man treat himself like a
subhuman being, by . . . developing his racism on all fronts”: against Jews,
against the English, against communists, and so on. He decried a white,
racist minority exercising its slavish oppression over the majority of blacks.
He also denounced the hypocrisy of the French government, who under the
pretense of supporting national sovereignty would do nothing about the
situation in South Africa, but who continued to supply arms to the South
African government in contravention of the resolutions of the United
Nations. In concluding, he called for solidarity with the heroes fighting
against apartheid: “It is necessary that these men, whose heroism is to fight
in solitude, know that they are not alone, that not only the UN condemns
apartheid, but that private organizations in all corners of the world, trade
unions, Church organizations, and people in general, without distinction of
who they are [condemn it].”55
Sartre would later follow up his intervention against the apartheid system
with his support for the black power movement at a rally held at Mutualité
on Monday, April 30, 1968, organized by the French committee in support
of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) in the United
States. To the two thousand who gathered to show their solidarity, Sartre
averred, “It is the same aggressor that oppresses thirty million Vietnamese
and twenty million blacks.” The oppression of blacks, he went on, is a
metonym of “the third world that the Americans have introduced in their
own home.”56
Subsequent interventions in this last phase of his antiracism would clarify
the parallels Sartre found between the racism akin to that in South Africa
and what he began to label the “interior colonies” of capitalist countries. For
example, on the occasion of the appearance in 1970 of Livre des travailleurs
africains en France, prefaced by Albert Memmi, a debate was organized
44 Jonathan Judaken

under the title, “Le Tiers-Monde commence en banlieue” (“The Third World
Begins in the Suburbs”). Sartre’s intercession, originally titled, “Les Pays
capitalistes et leurs colonies intérieures,” (“The Capitalist Countries and
their Interior Colonies”), made evident the connection between postcolo-
nial immigration — legal and illegal — and colonialism. Immigration is a
necessary consequence of colonization, he contended, since the impoverish-
ment of the colonies required that the dispossessed pursue economic
opportunities. Indeed, he insisted that the shadow workforce of illegal aliens
was a function of a systematic “politics of immigration.” Often no matter
how skilled, immigrants were confined to jobs that French workers were
loath to take. As such, rather than being integrated as a class, they were
rejected as a group. “This is how,” Sartre explained, “one developed a racism
that is very useful to capital” (305).
While many in France derided the racism in the United States, claiming
that Americans had de facto colonies in their country, France, he cautioned,
was “in the midst of trying to reconstitute within her borders the colonies
she had lost.”57 He explicitly compared blacks in the United States and
immigrants in France as members of the lumpenproletariat who suffered
from the iniquities of deplorable housing conditions, low salaries, and
racist discrimination, segregated in ghettos defined by systemic unemploy-
ment, criminalized solutions to poverty, and educational failure. Sartre’s
key point was clear, then, that the case of African immigrant workers as
well as other immigrants who suffered from discrimination was “not only
due to racism” but was “a necessity of French economic capitalism” (302).
Sartre’s focus on the “interior colonies” that characterize the metropolitan
centers of late capitalism thus highlighted the generalizable structures of
apartheid.
According to Michel Contat and Michel Rybalka, between January 1970
and July 1971 alone, Sartre participated in fifteen meetings, press confer-
ences, demonstrations, or as a part of diverse delegations, signing twelve
petitions, messages, or telegrams of solidarity, testifying at four trials of
immigrant militants, and writing short circumstantial articles, commu-
niqués, or public declarations about immigrant workers in France.58 This
was clearly one of his last significant political initiatives while he was phys-
ically able. While these interventions by Sartre were episodic and never
resulted in a significant article on how racism continued to function in an era
of mobile labor and production, his conception of interior colonization
sketched the contours of racial formations in the global economy. As the
recent insurgency in France as well as Hurricane Katrina have made clear,
these conditions are very much still with us. Slavoj Zizek acutely distilled
them in his response to Hurricane Katrina:
 Sartre on Racism 45

The segregation of the people is the reality of economic globalization. This

new racism of the developed world is in a way much more brutal than the
previous one: Its implicit legitimatization is neither naturalist (the “natural”
superiority of the developed West) nor culturalist (we in the West also want to
preserve our cultural identity). Rather, it’s an unabashed economic egotism—
the fundamental divide is the one between those included into the sphere of
(relative) economic prosperity and those excluded from it.59

In addition to the specific cultural, legal, political, and institutional factors

inside France or inside the United States or elsewhere, Sartre’s final clarion
calls against racism thirty years ago remind us to think about these problems
as a product of global capitalism. South African President Thabo Mkebi
suggested the same thing. In opening the World Summit for Sustainable
Development in Johannesburg on August 26, 2002, Mbeki issued a call to
end what he called the “global apartheid” between rich and poor created by
the primitive neoliberal rule of survival of the fittest. “A global human
society based on poverty for many and prosperity for a few, characterized by
islands of wealth, surrounded by a sea of poverty, is unsustainable,” he
remonstrated. Mbeki was lending his voice to a prophetic tradition of which
Sartre was always an audacious contributor.

What I want to suggest in concluding is that in the age of globalization, we

ought to read Sartre’s remonstrations against racism backward. We must
begin with the extraordinary divide between the so-called Third World and
the First World that Mbeki called “global apartheid” and the institutional-
ized injustices that undergird globalized capitalism. Reading Sartre helps to
remind us of the sometimes subtle and often ferocious ways in which racism
is a crucial ratchet in the mechanics of the system of oppression in our global
age. But his earlier work serves as a lever against his advocacy of the short-
cuts of terroristic violence that he came to believe were part of restorative
justice in such an age. The postcolonial situation has made evident that revo-
lutionary violence, especially the violence of terrorism, is most often not
therapeutic in healing the scarred body politic of colonial subjects (witness,
for example, Algeria or the Congo today), even in response to state-spon-
sored terrorism.
Moreover, racism continues to insinuate itself not only into the material
structures of exploitation, but into the psychic and cultural structures of
how we perceive the individual and collective Self and Other, and not only
in the West, as the export of the so-called new antisemitism into the Arab
world makes plain, as does what some are calling the “class apartheid” that
has insinuated itself into the new South Africa.60 Sartre reminds us that
46 Jonathan Judaken

solutions to these problems cannot come in the form of a retrenchment into

the politics of assimilation, but will depend upon a deconstructive trans-
valuation of the signs and strictures of race wherever they rear their ugly
face. Only this persistent work of undermining the “passion” of racism, by
revealing at once the groundlessness of this social construct and how it is
nonetheless socially mobilized, will enable us to someday gingerly walk the
roads to freedom that Sartre so valiantly helped to pave.

Notes
1. The impoverished and segregated northeastern suburb of Paris, Clichy-sous-
Bois has a population where 50 percent “are under the age of twenty,
unemployment is above 40 percent and identity checks and police harassment
are a daily experience.” See Naima Bouteldja, “Explosion in the suburbs: The
Riots in France are the Result of Years of Racism, Poverty and Police
Brutality,” Guardian Weekly (November 11–17, 2005), 6.
2. Paul Silverstein and Chantal Tetreault, “Urban Violence in France,” Middle
East Report Online, November 2005.
3. See Daniel Pipes, “Reflections on the Revolution in France,” New York Sun,
November 8, 2005; Frank Gaffney and Alex Alexiev, “Farewell to Europe?”
Washington Times, November 10, 2005; Charles Krauthammer, “What the
Uprising Wants,” Time, November 13, 2005; Fouad Ajami, “The Boys of
Nowhere,” US News and World Report, November 21, 2005.
4. Silverstein and Tetreault, “Urban Violence in France.”
5. Jean-Paul Sartre, “France and a Matter of Racism,” New York Times, March
11, 1973.
6. It is important to stress that these phases were not discrete and they did not
develop in a neat chronological order. The key theorems that undergird each
are distillations of my own analysis. Breaking up Sartre’s developing concep-
tion of racism into these four phases is a heuristic devise in order to demarcate
the evolution in his thinking on the subject, but also to extract his major
insights for political ends.
7. See Marie-Béatrice Baudet, “Jobs at Heart of French Crisis,” Guardian Weekly
(November 25–December 1, 2005): 29. Baudet draws upon the work of
French sociologists like Dominique Meurs, Ariane Pailhé, Patrick Simon, and
Eric Maurin who have shown the lack of intergenerational mobility and the
persistence of inequality for African and Turkish immigrants in France. The
article explains that non-European laborers run the risk of falling into a
“spiral of precariousness” since North African immigrants were 79 percent
more likely to find themselves unemployed than the indigenous French.
Since the modèle républicain d’intégration is the sacred creed of France’s
strict Republicanism, the official collection of data based upon religious or
ethnic origin is prohibited. It is nonetheless clear from the statistics that have
been amassed that African immigrants have overwhelmingly fallen into labor-
intensive jobs and unskilled labor positions in the service sector, including
telemarketing, catering, and retailing. Ethnic minorities are significantly under-
represented in the five million jobs in the public sector (government officials,
military and police, teachers, forestry) because these positions are limited to
French nationals and 26 percent of public servants follow their parents into
those same public sector positions, the figure being even higher (32.5 percent)
for management positions.
 Sartre on Racism 47

Even the neoconservative alarmist work of Gabriel Schoenfeld concedes the

statistics on institutionalized inequality in France. With Muslims now close to
10 percent of the population, “half of [all] unemployed workers are Muslim, a
rate more than double the national average. Those who do succeed in gaining
employment are mostly concentrated in low-paying, low-prestige, unskilled
jobs.” In addition, “housing for Muslims is universally bleak and over-
crowded. A large fraction of France’s Muslims live in urban foyers, dismal
housing projects for unaccompanied foreign workers that are seedbeds of
violence and criminality.” The result is that “over half of prison inmates and
43 percent of the residents of juvenile justice facilities are ‘foreign-born,’ a
euphemism for Muslims.” The source for Schoenfeld’s statistics is Christopher
Caldwell, “Allah Mode,” Weekly Standard, July 15, 2002. See Gabriel Schoen-
feld, The Return of Antisemitism (San Francisco: Encounter, 2004), 60–61.
Schoenfeld is unquestionably right about the return of antisemitism, but his
analysis of it is distorted and misguided. For my analysis, see “So What’s
New?: Rethinking the ‘New Antisemitism’ in a Global Age” in Jonathan
Judaken, ed., Naming Race, Naming Racisms (New York and London: Rout-
ledge, 2008).
For an excellent comprehensive analysis of Muslims in France today, see
Jonathan Laurence and Justin Vaisse, Integrating Islam: Political and Religious
Challenges in Contemporary France (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution
Press, 2006).
8. Robert Soucy, “Functional Hating: French Fascist Demonology between the
Wars,” Contemporary French Civilization 23.2 (Summer/Fall, 1999): 158–176,
158.
9. Jean-Paul Sartre, L’enfance d’un chef in Le Mur (Paris: Gallimard, 1939),
trans. Lloyd Alexander, The Wall (New York: New Directions, 1948). See
Jonathan Judaken, Jean-Paul Sartre and the Jewish Question: Anti-anti-
semitism and the Politics of the French Intellectual (Lincoln: University of
Nebraska Press, 2006), chapter 1, where I argue that contrary to the canonical
interpretation of Sartre’s work, he was politicized during the 1930s. The claim
that he was not can only be sustained if you separate Sartre’s literature and
consequently the realm of culture from politics, which is dubious, especially in
a cultural context like France where the two are so intertwined.
It should be added here that Sartre’s L’Enfance d’un chef and its influence in
particular on his Réflexions sur la question juive makes evident that it was not
Sartre’s first visit to the United States in 1945 and his engagement with the
racism against African-Africans that engendered his political activism in
general nor his antiracism in particular. Annie Cohen-Solal makes this argu-
ment in Sartre 1905–1980 (Paris: Gallimard, 1985), 318–19, trans. A.
Cancogni Sartre: A Life (London: Heinemann, 1987), 241: “It is far from
home, far from his daily reality and his socio-historical connivances, that his
first endorsement of a purely social cause takes place.” Robert Bernasconi’s
outstanding article also echoes this point. See “Sartre’s Gaze Returned: The
Transformation of the Phenomenology of Racism,” Graduate Faculty Philos-
ophy Journal 10.2 (1995), reprinted in William McBride, ed., Existentialist
Ethics (New York: Garland, 1997), 359–79, 359.
10. The Action Française was the most important organization of the extreme
Right in France in the first quarter of the twentieth century. See Eugen Weber,
The Action Française: Royalism and Reaction in Twentieth-Century France
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1962); Paul Mazgaj, The Action Française
and Revolutionary Syndicalism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press, 1979); and Michel Winock, “L’Action française” in Histoire de l’ex-
48 Jonathan Judaken
trême droite en France, Michel Winock, ed. (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1991),
125–56.
11. I write “the Jew” in quotes to indicate that it is a constructed category and
that to describe “the Jew” also inscribes the category as a marker of difference
whether based on language, belief system, artistic tradition, or gene pool. On
this point in relation to ‘race,’ see Henry Louis Gates Jr., “Introduction:
Writing ‘Race’ and the Difference It Makes,” in “Race,” Writing and Differ-
ence, ed. Henry Louis Gates Jr. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986),
5. See also Berel Lang, “From Grammar to Antisemitism: On the ‘the’ in ‘the
Jews.’ ” Originally published in Midstream 49.4 (May–June 2003). Available
at: http://www.wzo.org.il/en/resources/view.asp?id=1489. Accessed July 4,
2006.
12. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Portrait de l’antisémite” was first published in Les Temps
modernes 3 (December 1945): 442–70. Jean-Paul Sartre, Réflexions sur la
question juive (Paris: Gallimard Folio/Essais, 1954), trans. George Becker,
Antisemite and Jew (New York: Schocken, 1948). Cited parenthetically here-
after. In the case of all of Sartre’s texts, I have cited the French text first and
then the English, altering the translations where necessary.
13. Levinas’s response was recently translated by Denis Hollier and Rosalind
Krauss as “Existentialism and Antisemitism” in October 87 (Winter 1999):
27–31, 28. It was collected in Emmanuel Levinas, Les Imprévus de l’histoire
(Paris: Fata Morgana, 1994): 103–106.
14. Jean-Paul Sartre, L’être et le néant: Essai d’ontologie phénoménologique (Paris:
Gallimard, 1943), trans. Hazel Barnes, Being and Nothingness (New York:
Washington Square Books, 1956). The citations to the English translation are
parenthetical hereafter.
15. Lewis R. Gordon teases out the different modalities of bad faith at work in
racism in his “Sartrean Bad Faith and Antiblack Racism,” in S. Galt Crowell,
ed., The Prism of the Self (Amsterdam: Kluwer Academic Publishers), 107–29.
Reprinted in McBride, Existentialist Ethics, 336–38. I would abstract and
itemize the forms of bad faith he discusses as follows: (1) the effort to flee the
freedom and responsibility constitutive of the human condition by reifying
Others (which Sartre calls “sadism”) or accepting how you are objectified by
Others (which Sartre names “masochism”); (2) the evasion of the gaze of the
Other, which in racialized contexts can take the form of “exotizing and
romanticizing of the Other in a way that denies his freedom to judge”; (3) the
denial of the social world in the form of solipsism or pure alienated individu-
ality; (4) “emphasizing abstract humanity over concrete human beings or of
focusing upon the corporeality and facticity of human beings as though they
were devoid of other possibilities. . . . Thus, a person in bad faith could love
humanity in the abstract while torturing human beings in the flesh”; (5) the
epistemological claim that underpins much of racist discourse, which claims to
speak from the perspective of objective truth and thus fudges the question of
evidence, which from an existentialist perspective is always situated and
perspectival.
16. Sander Gilman has done the best work on the associative logic of stereotyping
and why certain characteristics are stressed in typologies of the Other. Among
his many works, see in particular “What Are Stereotypes and Why Use Texts to
Study Them” in Difference and Pathology: Stereotypes of Sexuality, Race and
Madness (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1985).
17. On the evolution in Sartre’s understanding of the social construction of race,
see Donna-Dale Marcano, “Sartre and the Social Construction of Race” in
Robert Bernasconi with Sybol Cook, eds., Race and Racism in Continental
 Sartre on Racism 49

Philosophy (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2003),

214–26. Her essay explores “two models of group constitution employed by
Sartre, the first from Antisemite and Jew, which bases group constitution and
identity on the gaze of the dominant Others, and the second from his later
work Critique of Dialectical Reason, volume 1, which places the group as a
prominent facilitator of history that produces itself in the domain of the
Other. For the later Sartre, the genesis of groups is found in the events, the
materiality, and the group members’ work and antagonisms, set against a
background of need and an effort at concerted praxis” (214).
18. See Sartre, Réflexions/Antisemite and Jew, 22/19. Bernard-Henri Lévy empha-
sizes this point in Le Siècle de Sartre (Paris: Bernard Grasset, 2000), 403,
trans. Andrew Brown, Sartre: The Philosopher of the Twentieth Century
(London: Polity, 2003), 304.
19. This is translated in the English as “policy of assimilation,” (57), but in the
French is “politique d’assimilation” (67).
20. There are numerous shortcomings in Sartre’s Réflexions, which are detailed in
chapter 4 of my Jean-Paul Sartre and the Jewish Question. In recent discus-
sions, these have sometimes foreclosed the important insights of Sartre’s text,
which I attempt to highlight as well. For an assessment of the critical literature
and responses to the Réflexions in French as a means to trace the Jewish Ques-
tion in postwar France, see chapter 8 of Jean-Paul Sartre and the Jewish
Question. There is also an important critical literature of the work in English,
including Harold Rosenberg, “Does the Jew Exist? Sartre’s Morality Play
about Antisemitism,” Commentary 7.1 (January 1949): 8–18; Joseph
Sungolowsky, “Criticism of Antisemite and Jew,” Yale French Studies 30
(Fall–Winter 1962–63): 68–72; Elaine Marks, “The Limits of Ideology and
Sensibility: J. P. Sartre’s Réflexions sur la Question Juive and E. M. Cioran’s
Un peuple de Solitaires,” French Review 45.4 (1972): 779–88; Stuart Zane
Charmé, Vulgarity and Authenticity: Dimensions of Otherness in the World of
Jean-Paul Sartre (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1991), 105–44;
Susan Rubin Suleiman, “The Jew in Jean-Paul Sartre’s Réflexions sur la ques-
tion juive: An Exercise in Historical Reading” in The Jew in the Text:
Modernity and the Construction of Identity, ed. and intro. Linda Nochlin and
Tamar Garb (London: Thames and Hudson, 1995), 208–15; there are also
several important contributions in the special issue of October commemo-
rating the fiftieth anniversary of Antisemite and Jew: October 87 (Winter
1999).
21. On this period, see chapter 5 of my Jean-Paul Sartre and the Jewish Question
and chapter 6 for Sartre’s interventions into the Arab-Israeli conflict. Works in
which Sartre does address antisemitism in this period are primarily works of
fiction. See Le Scénario Freud, ed. J.-B. Pontalis (Paris: Gallimard, 1984),
trans. Quintin Hoare, The Freud Scenario (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1985), and Les Séquestrés d’Altona (Paris; Gallimard, 1960), trans.
Sylvia and George Leeson, The Condemned of Altona (New York: Knopf,
1961). I cite his discussion in the Critique of Dialectical Reason below.
22. Cited in M. Watteau, “Situation raciales et condition de l’homme dans l’oeuvre
de Jean-Paul Sartre,” Présence africaine 2 (January 1948): 228.
23. Jean-Paul Sartre, L’existentialisme est un humanisme (Paris: Nagel, 1946), 24,
trans. Bernard Frechtman, “Existentialism” in Existentialism and Human
Emotions (New York: Philosophical Library), 9–51, 16.
24. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Retour des Etats Unis: Ce qui j’ai appris du problème noir,”
Le Figaro (June 16, 1945), 2, trans. T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting in Existence
in Black : An Anthology of Black Existential Philosophy, ed. Lewis Gordon
50 Jonathan Judaken
(New York: Routledge, 1997): 83–87. The page numbers to the English trans-
lation are cited parenthetically hereafter.
25. See Sartre, L’être et le néant, 85–111, 431–503, and Being and Nothingness,
86–116, 471–556.
26. On the central role that the state plays in racism, see David Theo Goldberg,
The Racial State (Oxford: Blackwell, 2002). On the term “racialization,” see
12, n.1: “it might characterize in some contexts simply the attribution of racial
meanings or values to social conditions or arrangements, or the distinction
between social groups in racial terms. In other contexts it is used to impute
exclusionary or derogatory implications to social conditions thus character-
ized.”
27. Jean-Paul Sartre, “La violence revolutionnaire,” in Cahiers pour une morale
(Paris: Gallimard, 1983), 579–94, trans. David Pellauer, “Revolutionary
Violence” in Notebooks for an Ethics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1992), 561–74. Cited parenthetically hereafter. These Notebooks were written
in 1947 and 1948 and were Sartre’s initial efforts to formulate an ethics on the
basis of the ontology developed in Being and Nothingness. The difficulty was
to explore what imperatives might derive from Sartre’s ontological indicatives.
The only pages of the Notebooks published in Sartre’s lifetime were taken
from this excursus. See Jean-Paul Sartre, “Le Noir et Le Blanc aux États-Unis,”
Combat, June 16, 1949. Charmé, Vulgarity and Authenticity, 197, n. 5,
suggests that this excursus on the oppression of blacks in the United States
may have been part of an article, “Concerning Slavery,” which was announced
by Présence africaine in 1949, but which never appeared.
28. Barbara Jeanne Fields, “Slavery, Race and Ideology in the United States of
America,” New Left Review 181 (May/June 1990): 95–118, 106. Fields
explains that ideology is not the same as doctrine or dogma, but the “vocabu-
lary of day-to-day action and experience. . . . Doctrine or dogma may be
imposed . . . ideology is a distillate of experience” (111–12). Thus racial
ideology was the distillation of the experience of the oppression of slavery. As
such, “racial ideology supplied the means of explaining slavery to people
whose terrain was a republic founded on radical doctrines of liberty and
natural rights” (114), since “when self-evident laws of nature guarantee
freedom, only equally self-evident laws of equally self-evident nature can
account for its denial” (107).
29. Gunnar Myrdal, An American Dilemma: The Negro Problem and Modern
Democracy (New York: Harper and Row, 1944). Myrdal’s central thesis was
that America was committed to what he called the “American Creed,” which
he summed up as a “belief in equality and in the rights to liberty” (vol. 1, 8),
and the “American dilemma” arose from the contradictions of this creed with
America’s de facto racist caste system, along with other local and community
interests and prejudices that overrode the belief in the creed. On Myrdal and
the debate his work occasioned, see Richard H. King, Race, Culture and the
Intellectuals, 1940–1970 (Baltimore and Washington D.C.: Woodrow Wilson
Center Press and Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 21–48.
30. For an excellent discussion of Fanon’s critique of the Hegelian dialectic in
Black Skin, White Masks, see Kelly Oliver, “Alienation and Its Double; or The
Secretion of Race” in Robert Bernasconi with Sybol Cook, eds., Race and
Racism in Continental Philosophy, 176–95, 177–78.
31. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Orphée noir,” preface to Léopold Sédar Senghor, Anthologie
de la nouvelle poésie nègre et malgache de langue française (Paris: Presses
Universitaires de France, 1977), trans. John MacCombie, “Black Orpheus,”
 Sartre on Racism 51

The Massachusetts Review 6 (Autumn 1964–65), 13–52. Cited parenthetically

hereafter.
32. This is a step beyond Sartre’s position in What is Literature? where he holds
that the task of the writer is to bear witness to the limits and possibilities of
freedom in his/her age.
33. Abiola Irele, “A Defence of Negritude: A Propos of Black Orpheus by Jean-
Paul Sartre,” Transition 13 (March–April, 1964): 9–11, 9. On the distinction
between “racialism” and different modes of racism, see Kwame Anthony
Appiah, “Racisms” in David Theo Goldberg, ed., Anatomy of Racism
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990). See also the way that
Tzvetan Todorov delineates the distinction between “racialism” and “racism,”
in On Human Diversity: Nationalism, Racism and Exoticism in French
Thought (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993), 90–95.
34. W. E. B. Du Bois in The Souls of Black Folks (New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s,
1997) argues that African-Americans were “born with a veil, and gifted with a
second-sight in this American World.” Second sight, however, “yields him [the
African-American] no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself
through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this
double consciousness.” Du Bois continues, “this sense of always looking at
one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a
world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-
ness—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled
strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone
keeps it from being torn asunder” (38).
35. Audre Lorde famously denied this in her article “The Master’s Tools Will
Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” in This Bridge Called My Back: Writ-
ings By Radical Women of Color, ed. Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldúa
(New York: Kitchen Table, 1983), 98–101.
36. For a taxonomy of these motifs, see chapter 4 of my Jean-Paul Sartre and the
Jewish Question.
37. Stuart Zane Charmé, Vulgarity and Authenticity: Dimensions of Otherness in
the World of Jean-Paul Sartre (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press,
1991), 202.
38. Several recent critics have accused Sartre of reiterating a notion of an essential
black character. See for example, Francis A Joppa, “Sartre et les milieux intel-
lectuels de l’Afrique noire,” Présence francophone 25 (1989): 7–28, 21, and
Christopher L. Miller, “Theories of Africans: The Question of Literary
Anthropology,” in Henry Louis Gates Jr., ed., “Race,” Writing and Difference
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986). Henry Louis Gates Jr. thus stip-
ulates in “Talkin’ That Talk,” Critical Inquiry 13.1 (Autumn 1986): 203–10,
207, “Sartre’s fantasies of ‘the being’ of ‘the’ African in Black Orpheus are
racialist, as is his consideration of Richard Wright’s ‘split’ audience in What Is
Literature?”
39. Frantz Fanon, Peau noire, masques blancs (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1952),
110, trans. Black Skin, White Masks, trans. Charles Man Markmann (New
York: Grove, 1967), 135.
40. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Préface” in D’une Chine à l’autre by Henri Cartier-Bresson
(Paris: Robert Delpire, 1954), reprinted as “D’une Chine à l’autre” in Situa-
tions V: Colonialisme et néo-colonialisme (Paris: Galimard, 1964), trans.
Azzedine Haddour, Steve Brewer, and Terry McWilliams (London and New
York: Routledge 2001). Cited parenthetically hereafter.
41. Azzedine Haddour, “Introduction: Remembering Sartre,” in Jean-Paul Sartre,
Colonialism and Neocolonialism, 1.
52 Jonathan Judaken
42. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Préface,” in Albert Memmi, Portrait du colonisé précédé de
portrait du colonisateur (Paris: Payot, 1973), trans. Howard Greenfeld, “Intro-
duction,” in The Colonizer and the Colonized (Boston: Beacon, 1991 [1965]).
Cited parenthetically hereafter.
43. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Le colonialisme est un système,” Les Temps modernes 123
(March–April 1956), reprinted as “Le colonialisme est un système,” in Situa-
tions V, 25–48, 26, trans. “Colonialism Is a System” in Colonialism and
Neo-colonialism, 31. Cited parenthetically hereafter as CS.
44. For a fully developed version of this argument, see Michael Adas, Machines As
the Measure of Men (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989).
45. Tony Smith, “Idealism and People’s War: Sartre on Algeria,” Political Theory
1.4 (November 1973): 426–49, 428–29.
46. For the notion that universalism and equality contains the potential of an
exclusionary logic, see George M. Fredrickson, Racism: A Short History
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002): “If equality is the norm in the
spiritual or temporal realms (or in both at the same time), and there are
groups of people within the society who are so despised or disparaged that the
upholders of the norms feel compelled to make them exceptions to the promise
or realization of equality, they can be denied the prospect of equal status only
if they allegedly possess some extraordinary deficiency that makes them less
than fully human. It is uniquely in the West that we find the dialectical interac-
tion between a premise of equality and an intense prejudice toward certain
groups that would seem to be a precondition for the full flowering of racism as
an ideology or worldview” (12).
47. Sartre originally wrote this piece at the request of Le Monde to comment on a
collection of statements and documents on the methods of pacification used
by reservists called Des Rappelés témoignent (Mobilized Reservists Bear
Witness). When Le Monde rejected the article as an incitement to violence,
Sartre published it in Les Temps modernes 135 (May 1957), and reprinted it
in Situations V as “Vous êtes formidables,” 57–67, 57, trans. in Colonialism
and Neocolonialism as “You Are Wonderful,” 54–61, 54. Cited parenthetically
hereafter.
48. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Une victoire,” in Henri Alleg, La Question (Lausanne: La
cite, 1958), trans. John Calder, “A Victory,” in Henri Alleg, The Question
(New York: Brazillier, 1958). Cited parenthetically hereafter.
49. See in particular, Jean-Paul Sartre, Critique de la raison dialectique (Paris:
Gallimard, 1960), 726–38 and 797–814, trans. Alan Sheridan-Smith, Critique
of Dialectical Reason, vol. 1 (New York: Verso, 1976), 642–54 and 716–34.
Cited parenthetically hereafter.
50. Martin Jay, “From Totality to Totalization: Sartre” in Marxism and Totality:
The Adventures of a Concept from Lukács to Habermas (Berkeley and Los
Angeles: University of California Press, 1984), 351.
51. William McBride, Sartre’s Political Theory (Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 1991), 136.
52. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Préface” in Frantz Fanon, Les damnés de la terre (Paris:
François Maspero, 1961), 9, trans. Constance Farrington, “Preface” in Frantz
Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (New York: Grove, 1963), 7. Cited paren-
thetically hereafter.
53. Karl Marx, The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte (New York: Interna-
tional Publishers, 1987), 15.
54. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Lumumba et le néo-colonialisme,” preface to Discours de
Lumumba (Paris: Présence Africaine, 1963), reprinted as “La pensée politique
de Patrice Lumumba,” in Situations V, 194–253, 194, trans. “The Political
 Sartre on Racism 53

Thought of Patrice Lumumba” in Colonialism and Neocolonialism, 156. Cited

parenthetically hereafter.
55. The text was published in Christianisme social 74.11–12 (1966): 623–30,
and as “Ceux qui sont aux prises avec l’apartheid doivent savoir qu’ils ne sont
pas seuls,” Droit et liberté 257 (December 1966): 8–9. My citations are to this
text. Extracts were also cited in the short article by Jean Geoffroy, “Sartre et
l’apartheid,” Le Nouvel Observateur 105, 16–22 (November 1966): 6.
It should be remembered that Sartre considered donating the money
from the Nobel Prize he was awarded (and then decided to reject) to an
anti-apartheid group in London. See “L’Ecrivain doit refuser de se laisser
transformer en institution” Le Monde, October 24, 1964.
56. “Meeting en faveur du ‘Pouvoir noir,’ ” Le Monde, May 2, 1968, 3.
57. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Les Pays capitalists et leur colonies intérieures” Triconti-
mental, Paris, 1970, reprinted as “Le tiers-monde commence en banlieue”
Situations VIII (Paris: Gallimard, 1972), 302. References are to this text and
cited parenthetically hereafter.
58. Michel Contat and Michel Rybalka, Supplement to Ecrits de Sartre, Le Maga-
zine littéraire 55–56 (Summer 1971). Cited in Noureddine Lamouchi,
Jean-Paul Sartre et le tiers monde: Rhétorique d’un discours anticolonialiste
(Paris: L’Harmattan, 1996), 170.
59. Slavoj Zizek, “The Subject Supposed to Loot and Rape: Reality and Fantasy
in New Orleans.” http://www.inthesetimes.com/site/main/article/2361.
60. On this point, see Gillian Hart, “Changing Concepts of Articulation: Political
Stakes in South Africa Today,” Review of African Political Economy 111:
85–101. I am grateful to her also for the following references: Patrick Bond,
Talk Left, Walk Right (Scottsville, South Africa: University of Kwa-Zulu-Natal
Press, 2004), and Jeremy Seekings and Nicoli Nattrass, Class, Race and
Inequality in South Africa (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005).
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 Chapter 2

Skin for Sale

Race and The Respectful Prostitute
Steve Martinot

In 1946, Sartre wrote a little-known play called La Putain respecteuse (The

Respectful Prostitute) about racism in the United States. When it was pro-
duced in the United States, Sartre was accused of anti-Americanism. It was
an accusation that suggested that he might have hit close to home with the
play. Commentary on the play has been sparse, perhaps for the same reason.1
Racism and racialized domination were much on Sartre’s mind in the wake
of World War II. In 1946, he published Réflexions sur la question juive (Anti-
semite and Jew), in which he addresses antisemitism not in its extreme Nazi
incarnation but in its quotidian appearance in France. In 1948, he wrote an
introduction to a volume of African and Afro-Caribbean poetry (Orphée
noir “Black Orpheus”), in which he attempted to show the white European
mind how it was seen by those it had colonized, exploited, and silenced. And
in his Cahiers pour une morale (Notebooks for an Ethics), written in 1948,
he addressed the phenomenology of the mind of the racial oppressor.2
But “race” and “racism” were not welcome issues in the United States at
that time. The United States did not desire to have its leadership in the
Nuremberg trials of Nazi leaders besmirched by attention to Jim Crow and
the chain gangs of its own southern states. Furthermore, though some
people had realized that the modern concept of “race” was a fabrication, a
way of rationalizing European colonialist seizure of other peoples’ lands by
inventing a biological European superiority — an idea that should have
received wide acceptance in the wake of the Nazi onslaught—it would be a
few decades before it would be more fully intelligible in the United States.
Though articulated by thinkers such as W. E. B. Du Bois or David Walker, the
idea that “race” was not “natural,” but rather a political process of inferior-
ization and degradation of people of color by whites for the purpose of
white superiority, would have to wait until mass (civil rights) movements
had ended Jim Crow to become acceptible.3

55
56 Steve Martinot

Part of what Sartre saw, and presented in his play, was the operation of
whiteness as a social structure. Even when the barbarity with which white
supremacy would institutionally defend itself against civil rights move-
ments had been clearly revealed to the world, the idea that “race” and
whiteness were social structures would still be resisted by most white
people.4 It is perhaps appropriate that someone from outside the United
States would see what those within it could not. For them, whiteness as a
social structure would be hard to see to the extent to which it was itself the
lens through which they looked, the filter through which they saw the world.
In offering a critical analysis of The Respectful Prostitute, I will try to do
three things: (1) analyze the components of Sartre’s insight into the structure
of whiteness and white supremacy; (2) relate the elements of that structure to
their present form in contemporary events; and (3) link his insights to other
of his philosophical writings, in order to more fully explicate them, as well as
to fill out the space of the play’s understanding of white racialized identity.

The Structure of Whiteness

The play takes place in a southern town, in the apartment of a prostitute
named Lizzie, who has recently arrived by train from the north. The drama
unfolds at three discursive levels: that of an unnamed black man’s insights
into the sociology of the town, that of the structural cohesion of the town’s
white people, and finally, that of the internal mythology and content of that
white cohesion. The black man’s insights bracket the action of the play as
preface and epilogue.
As the curtain rises, the black man appears at Lizzie’s door and simply
asks her to tell the truth: that he hadn’t done anything. He explains that the
streets are full of white people, that strangers are talking to each other as old
friends, and that when that happens, a black man is going to die. Thus,
Sartre contextualizes his play by invoking the calm white sociability that
portends racial violence.5 When the black man reappears at the end of the
play, he is indeed seeking refuge from a lynch mob that has germinated with
an inexorability that transcends any and all real issues.
The rest of the first scene takes place between Lizzie and the town’s white
elite. Her first client, who had been hiding when the black man knocked, is
a white man named Fred who had picked her up in a dancehall the night
before. He is the rich son of the local senator. He distrusts women, evinces
shame at his night with Lizzie, suggests he does not enjoy sex, and appears
to be expecting the police to show up. He keeps the blinds drawn against the
light of day, and plays mind games about erasing all memory of the night
before. Lizzie, on the other hand, is an honest sex worker. She does not want
to defraud a customer, nor lie about people. She is, however, very impressed
 Skin for Sale 57

by wealth (as opposed to mere money). When her client, Fred, offers her only
ten dollars for the night, she becomes enraged at his underestimation of her
talents; but her mood shifts quickly when he tells her he is a senator’s son
(RP, 258). Wealth obsessively regulates her emotions.
Fred’s ulterior motive for picking her up at the dance hall is to have her
affirm his second-hand account of what happened on the train she arrived
on. In his story, two black men had assaulted Lizzie. Some white men had
come to her rescue, and when one of the black men pulled a knife, one of the
white men shot him to death. The other then escaped. Lizzie’s first-hand
account differs considerably. According to her, four white men had gotten on
the train and started to molest her. When they noticed that two black men
were in the car watching them, they abandoned Lizzie and started a fight
with the black men. Because the black men seemed to be defending them-
selves successfully, one of the white men pulled a gun and shot one of the
black men, killing him. The other black man then jumped off the train as it
approached the town.
Fred wants Lizzie to affirm his version, which will clear the shooter of
wrongdoing. Otherwise, Fred says, he goes to prison, and the black man
goes free. Lizzie demands that her account be respected as the truth. Fred
argues that “there is no truth; there’s only whites and blacks” (RP, 262).
When Lizzie refuses to “rat” on anyone, Fred responds that she will have to
give one of them away in any case, in choosing which story to affirm. She
responds by affirming that the black man had done nothing. And Fred
rejoins that a black person has always “done something” (RP, 263).
Fred explains that in the south, whites have to stand together. And his
first injunction to Lizzie is that “you can’t punish a fellow of your own race”
(RP, 262). For Fred, to kill a black person is not to commit murder, while to
fail to exonerate the shooter would be to “protect” the black man. When
she scoffs that she’s not going to take the side of some guy who put his hands
all over her, Fred responds: “You do things like that without thinking; they
don’t count. Thomas [the shooter] is a leading citizen; that’s what counts”
(RP, 262). Thomas is in fact Fred’s cousin, and Fred offers Lizzie five
hundred dollars to exonerate him. At that moment, Lizzie realizes what is
going on, and why he had picked her up the night before. But she is caught
in a double bind: with either choice, she betrays someone, and thus betrays
her principles.
As a spokesman for the sanctity of whiteness, Fred’s bad faith is clear.
Regardless of truth, morality, law, or experience, yet in the name of all that,
white solidarity takes precedence. White solidarity and the social order
become one, a domain of consensus. It is the bad faith of that consensus that
puts Lizzie in a double bind. The demand that she stand on the side of the
white man is more than white solidarity; it is a demand for the preservation
58 Steve Martinot

of the social order. She is caught between her sense of ethics and a social
structure that discounts any such ethics in the name of its own integrity.
As she realizes the trap she is in, the police arrive with a written statement
for Lizzie to sign. She is told that if she doesn’t sign the statement, Thomas
will be charged with murder. Since the statement is carried by the police, and
has a judge’s official sanction, it is clear that Thomas’s exoneration has
already been arranged by the political elite of the town (i.e., Fred’s family,
the police, and the judge), working in concert. In other words, the story
exonerating Thomas is more than merely an alibi. It is white society’s alle-
giance to itself. Thomas’s actions of molesting women and killing black men
are ignorable because he is white. The ideological requirements of race
trump experiential truth or justice.
Herein lies a part of the town’s racialized structure. White social cohesion
and its exoneration from criminality are two sides of the same coin. Fred’s
claim that a black person has always “done something” is seamlessly linked to
the counterassumption that whatever a white person does to a black person
(even killing him) is to have done nothing. There is an inversion of crimi-
nality. A black man is (has already been) criminalized in order to decrimi-
nalize a white man’s murder of another black man. Or, to state it as a general
maxim: Racial domination decriminalizes itself by criminalizing its victims.6
One can see this same ethos today expressed in many ways. Take, for
instance, the contemporary ideology of judicial and political “colorblind-
ness.” The “colorblindness” idea proclaims that race has been transcended
through civil rights legislation. It does not matter that social vestiges or struc-
tures of segregation remain in effect. When black or brown people raise the
issue of racism or racial discrimination because they find themselves still sub-
jected to it, they are countermanding the white proclamation and are thus at
fault. Indeed, they themselves are now labeled “racist” for having brought it
up. Thus the white proclamation of colorblindness exonerates itself by con-
demning any black person who questions it. If the one color “colorblindness”
can still “see” is white, its edict of equality (as white) implies that only white-
ness counts. In other words, the corruption of racial domination gets purified
through just such an ethical inversion as Sartre had presented.
It is a corruption that the play even extends to Lizzie’s profession. When
Lizzie reviles Fred for his bribe, it is because she realizes he took her to bed
for even more nefarious purposes than his prurience. The corruption
required to keep the white social order intact extends even to a betrayal of
prostitution.
As Sartre explains in the Notebooks for an Ethics, in order for those
who dominate to have a good conscience, they have to be able to make those
they dominate wrong, a priori. All virtue has to be drained from the
oppressed, so that their deficiency becomes sufficient reason to dominate
 Skin for Sale 59

them (Ethics, 562). Enslavement, torture, segregation, and criminalization

are the means whereby the dominated are shown to be devoid of virtue or
humanity. White supremacy imposes a “bestial” existence on others in order
to render itself “civilized” (Ethics, 569). But in so constructing itself, white
racialized identity shows its truly parasitic nature. Though it seeks to reduce
black people to a form of social nonexistence, black people remain indis-
pensable for the maintenance of white racialized identity as a social
structure. Their victimization is the instrumentality by which white social
sanctity, the very identity of its social order, is constructed.
Thus, the white characters in the play continually disdain black people to
each other, deploying derogatory expressions as if paying dues to white
membership. This habitual attitude of disparagement is not simply to reflect
a white sense of power. It provides for the suspension of bad conscience.
And underneath it, a structure of impunity looms into view. The ability
to dispense with ethics, the ability to be a law unto oneself, goes beyond the
structuring of social cohesion around required consensus. And this provides
a more disturbing link to the present. In the confluence of these structures of
ethical inversion, derogation, and impunity, the play appears deplorably
familiar. Indeed, nothing about it seems foreign, or unfamiliar, or farfetched.
Its structural familiarity links firmly to the present.
For instance, we have the case of Mumia Abu-Jamal. Abu-Jamal was a
black journalist convicted in a tainted trial of killing a police officer in
Philadelphia, in an incident in which Mumia himself was shot, and his own
gun remained unfired; he sits on death row despite recanted testimony,
evidence of judicial malfeasance, tampering with evidence, and the fact that
a white man has come forward admitting to the deed. Mumia’s journalistic
focus had been on police brutality against the black community in Philadel-
phia. To silence his testimony of police criminality, he himself was
criminalized as a “cop killer.” The entire judicial establishment of Pennsyl-
vania, from police departments to the state Supreme Court, has cohered in
refusing to allow a retrial, to preserve its original conviction intact. The state
and national police departments continually express outrage that a “cop
killer” should be granted any rights at all, while no expression of outrage at
patent injustice has emerged from within any state institution.7 In other
words, beyond simply reflecting institutional racism, this case represents a
structure of social consensus on institutional impunity with respect to both
police brutality and the suppression of its critics. “Racism” becomes too
impoverished a term for what that “impunity” represents.
As an element of social structure, the ethical inversion Sartre has drama-
tized echoes repeatedly in the play, as it does in our world.8 For instance, it
recurs in the criminalization of Lizzie; she becomes the victimizer of Thomas
when she refuses to exonerate him. To persuade her, the men show her
60 Steve Martinot

pictures of Thomas, refer to phrenology, and attempt to impress her with the
ontological superiority of the man she will be sending to prison. She who
had been the victim of Thomas’s molestations, and seen him murder
someone, is to be given the onus for his imprisonment. And if he is to be her
“victim,” then the law will impugn her through prosecution.
In a similar fashion, many whites have claimed to be the victims of affir-
mative action legislation, feeling that it discriminates against them. Thus,
they choose to see affirmative action’s attempt to undo past discriminations
and exclusions as a quota system, while refusing to see the system it sought
to replace and compensate for (Jim Crow segregation) as itself a 100 percent
quota system for the benefit of whites. At this abstract level, the ethical inver-
sions of the white social machinery manage to transform bad faith into
citizenship and honor; they mark the structural core of how white society
has been ordered.
When Lizzie persists in refusing to sign (though facing jail on prostitu-
tion charges), the men start to rough her up.

The Ontology of Whiteness

While the play’s agon occurs between white people (in conflict over white
consensus), the black man remains the mediating entity in its unfolding
struggle. Black people in general are the indispensable other at the core of
white sociality, as the existential target of white self-decriminalization. But
the black man from the train is not charged with raping Lizzie simply
because he was there (“rape” being the catch-all charge against black men
under Jim Crow).9 He was attacked for other reasons. Something else
happened on that train, which for Sartre is central to the phenomenology of
domination. The black men on the train “saw” the white men. At the
moment of molesting Lizzie, the white men were subjected to the look of the
black other. It is that which domination finds unacceptable.
For Sartre, it is in the “look” of the other that one apprehends another as
a subject.10 Sartre’s account of the “look” resolves a previously intractable
philosophical problem: how to account for another subject without falling
prey to the solipsism of attributing one’s own subjectivity to the other.
Finding oneself in the look of another, one apprehends the other as a subject
by recognizing oneself as an object for that subject (BN, 262). It is not that
one “encounters” the other’s subjectivity; one apprehends the other as
subject through the other’s effect on oneself through the look.
Between individuals of equal social standing, the look can be returned,
reestablishing one’s own subjectivity by seeing the other as an object—in
potentially endless exchange. It can also be returned to grant the other the
subjectivity apprehended in the other’s look, in a returned look that accepts
 Skin for Sale 61

one’s own objectivization by the other as a dimension of one’s retrieved

subjectivity, a granting of subjectivity that the other’s re-returned look can
also reciprocate, as a form of dialogic conjunction (BN, 283ff). Sartre recog-
nized that an essential aspect of domination or oppression of another
consists in reducing him/her to subhuman status through a denial of subjec-
tivity itself. This means prohibiting both the other’s look and the very
possibility of dialogic interaction. The subordinate is denied the possibility
of making the dominant an object for him/herself. No recognition for being
a subjectivity in one’s own right, able to see the dominant as an object, is
admitted (Ethics, 567). The limited subjectivity the other is permitted will
only extend to the performance of tasks assigned, as well as expressions of
gratitude and respect for the oppressor, so that the latter need not confront
his refusal of humanity to the oppressed. The corollary is that no respect or
kindness can be shown toward the oppressed because it would signify that
the oppressed had been fully human all along (Ethics, 572).
White supremacy relies upon the denial of subjectivity to black people.
Sartre reiterates this point in “Black Orpheus.” He notes that white privi-
lege consists in “seeing [the other] without being seen.”11 That is, those
white supremacy racializes for its own identity and stability must be denied
recognition as subjects. To look at white people is to violate that prohibition.
The Other of racism is obsessively looked at (even in absence), and appro-
priated as a pure object, while being refused the recognition of being able
to look back. In the play, when Fred claims that a black person has always
“done something,” the violation of the prohibition against the look forms an
important part of the substance to his blanket indictment. To have looked
constitutes a violation of the rule of whiteness. Each transgression of this
law becomes an act of insurrection against white supremacy. On the train,
the two black men were assumed to have presented themselves as subjects,
for which they were to be punished by the white men. As Sartre puts it in the
Critique of Dialectical Reason, colonialism is a sentence passed on the colo-
nized apriori.12
The inversions of ethical values that introduce fraudulence at the heart
of white consensus and social cohesion emerge naturally from this refusal
of reciprocity. White supremacy has insisted on segregation and disenfran-
chisement (which has also included barring black people from testifying
against white people in court) as its logical extension. And conversely, the
general white blindness to the oppressions of white supremacy is licensed
by that same refusal of reciprocity.
This is quite different from the Hegelian master-slave dialectic. Hegel’s
dialectic depends upon a mutual recognition between the dominant and the
subordinate, though the terms of that recognition may be disparate or even
incommensurable. Each achieves a sense of social being through the other.
62 Steve Martinot

But racialization — what whites as a group do to those they designate as

nonwhite in order to constitute themselves as white (see note 3)—becomes
a subject-object relation in which recognition is unidirectional. For Sartre,
the “master/slave” relation applies primarily to workers within a capitalist
framework, who stand in reciprocal relation to capitalists across the objects
of capital (the means of production) (Ethics, 566).
To understand “race” as a social structure means to understand it as a
social relation between the collective or consensual white socius and the
objectified other as racialized (Ethics, 570). It cannot be a relation between
subjectivities or modes of consciousness since its subject-object character
prohibits reciprocity or mutual recognition. It is to this structure that DuBois
alluded when he spoke of double consciousness. For DuBois, to be black in
the United States is always to see oneself through the eyes of another. While
one remains a subjectivity for oneself among black people, one apprehends
oneself as an object for whites.13
In this structure of racialization, with its inversion of ethics and curtail-
ment of subjectivity, there is inherent violence. It is a gratuitous violence,
however. For those targeted by it, it seems to come out of nowhere, with no
overt source or motivation. (In that sense, the black man’s initial plea, at the
beginning of the play, that he “hadn’t done anything,” symbolizes the condi-
tion of all racialized and colonized people.) For the white perpetrators, on
the other hand, who choose to see a black person’s assumption of subjec-
tivity as an act of insurgency, their violence appears as “counterviolence” or
self-defense. In the play, Thomas’s invention of a knife in the black man’s
hand was an automatic justification for the shooting, masking Thomas’s
retaliation for having been seen molesting Lizzie. In effect, to be white means
to constitute one’s racialized identity (that is, one’s white subjectivity in the
Sartrean sense of the “fundamental project” (BN, 463)) through the
construction of a threat one locates in black people and in any black
autonomy that can be suppressed.
But the structure goes beyond threat. As Sartre shows in the Ethics, one
becomes conscious of society, and of one’s socialization, through the look of
others (Ethics, 111). For whites, since black people are to be prohibited the
look, they can only become conscious of their social framework through
other whites. All social dynamics occur only through interaction with other
whites. In the Critique, Sartre argues that because each member of the colo-
nized (black) group is seen as a threat to all colonizers (whites) (CDR, 302),
whites are faced with the continual necessity not only of enforcing their
domination on those who would throw it off if they could, but of demon-
strating to each other that it is still enforceable. The apprehension of a threat
(of black subjectivity) generates an ever-renewed demand for white soli-
darity and consensus. White society must constantly imbue itself with a
 Skin for Sale 63

sense of threat in order to reproduce the mutual recognition and allegiance

essential to white identity as such.
This is the role of racism. “Racism is the colonial interest lived as a link
of all the colonists” (CDR, 300). That is, “racism” is a social technology
designed not only to maintain the system of social categorizations called
“race,” but to be the means whereby white racialized identity is continually
reconstituted through its construction of a threat. The existence of the
racialized other as a threat, through denial of the other’s subjectivity,
provides the fundamental condition for the survival of white social cohesion.
In other words, “racialization” is the white deployment of others (designated
nonwhite) who, in being appropriated as objects, pose the possibility of a
threat through which whites can constitute themselves as white. Though
racism may be called “prejudice” toward others, its hostility and contempt
really express a narcissistic, blind, and gratuitous social reaffirmation of
white identity and membership—as a relation between whites. Furthermore,
Sartre argues, each refusal to recognize the (nonwhite, or colonized) other
as a subjectivity marks an “impotence” because it testifies to a subjectivity
devoid of the ability to constitute itself as a subjectivity without that other
as its object (CDR, 302).
For a white person to truly grasp how this happens in his/her own mind,
and to stop it, would mean to cease being white, because it would mean
granting the subjectivity and humanity to others that whiteness withholds.
All bad faith would have to be brought to an end. One would have to stop
racializing black people, while guaranteeing their autonomy to define them-
selves however they see fit, whether that was to continue their former
racialization as black (or Native American, or Latino, etc.) or not, insofar as
their own racial consciousness has been the major way they have honorably
and courageously survived white supremacy.
What Sartre sought to do, in both Antisemite and Jew, and “Black
Orpheus,” was to take steps toward the restoration of the subjectivity of
the colonized, by placing European colonialism in its look. His purpose was
to make the structure of white (colonialist) self-racialization clear to the
Eurocentric mind. However, there is a problem with this. In the anthology
that “Black Orpheus” introduces, the look is oblique, since the contributors
are speaking to each other about “what concerns them,” which does not
include Europe. Indeed, it expresses a disregard for European pretensions to
being the center of the world by turning away from Europe and concerning
itself with its own thinking and experience.
Sartre in effect renarrativizes these writers by turning them back on
Europe so that Europe can see itself as seen; that is, see itself as an object
for those it had for centuries objectified. Sartre himself then becomes the
look of the decolonized eyes rendering Europe an object for itself. He
64 Steve Martinot

appropriates the look of these black poets, replacing their oblique look
with his own. Thus, he imposes his own Eurocentric gaze on their decolo-
nizing act of “turning away” from Eurocentrism. Against the strength of
the black refusal of European hegemony that he celebrates in the volume,
he reintegrates a Eurocentric historicity. In Peau Noire, Masques Blancs
(Black Skin, White Masks), Frantz Fanon would later censure Sartre for
seeing a people’s struggle for its own being as merely a stage in an histor-
ical dialectic, 14 which ignored the alternate ontologies that grounded
opposition to Eurocentric thought, and which emerged in various ways
from African anticolonialist struggles.
In pointing this out, Fanon sought to extricate Sartre from a more general
entrapment in a Eurocentric dialectic. In Antisemite and Jew, for instance,
though Sartre recognizes the relationality of antisemitism, he can only
propose a programmatic response that remains wholly inadequate to the
structure of that relationality. He sees no further than the Marxian dialectic,
and blandly proclaims that antisemitism will only be eliminated with the
elimination of class society (ASJ, 150). Sartre correctly argues that for the
antisemite, the character of the other (“the Jew”), or even the nature of
Judaism, is wholly contingent. But in offering his dialectical programmatic,
he reveals little sense of the profound cultural transformation necessary. It is
not only the denigration of an other that counts for the racist, but a larger
complex of social structures by which the racist (or antisemite) constructs
his/her own social identity. The relation of social identity to a social order as
a cultural order is what Sartre addresses in The Respectful Prostitute.

The Mythos of U.S. Whiteness

In the play, what ultimately breaks through Lizzie’s resistance is a third
level of discourse nested within the racializing structure of appropriation
and decriminalization of whiteness. White racialized identity lives not only
in its forms of social cohesion, the allegiance and consensus it demands
among whites; it provides itself with a cultural content, a system of
mythologies and technologies to govern the social performance of whiteness.
They appear in the words of the Senator (Fred’s father), who arrives just as
the police begin to assault Lizzie. He stops them, and approaches Lizzie in
wholly different terms.
The Senator begins by questioning Lizzie briefly, to ascertain that she is
sure of her story. He neither rejects her account nor impugns her honor.
Thus, he begins by granting her autonomy, a subjectivity of her own, as the
first step in integrating her into the white socius of the town. At the same
time, he shifts the victim again (for the third time). Where, for Fred, Thomas
is to be Lizzie’s victim if she does not sign the paper, the Senator makes
 Skin for Sale 65

Lizzie’s victim a mythical woman waiting passively somewhere for Lizzie to

choose. He introduces this woman as he starts to leave Lizzie’s apartment
by saying, offhand, “Poor Mary.” And Lizzie falls for it. The Senator turns
back for his command performance.
Mary is Thomas’s mother, a rich but helpless woman ostensibly caught
in Lizzie’s clutches because Lizzie controls Thomas’s fate. The Senator
assures Lizzie that the imprisonment of her son will kill her. Not only will
Lizzie be victimizing a “leading citizen,” but motherhood itself will fall to
her power. Looking Lizzie right in the eyes, he expatiates on what he envi-
sions Lizzie herself is thinking of what Mary would be thinking of Lizzie
(in gratitude) if Lizzie would save her son by signing the paper. Where the
double thinking of simple inversion is sufficient for the subject-object rela-
tion between white and black, a triple thinking of the situation is necessary
between whites—a fictionalization of consciousness rather than a denial of
it. The Senator renarrativizes Lizzie’s desire, making her be the one who
desires innocence and citizenship above all else (a hegemonic state contin-
gent on accepting the unethical and the criminal as legitimate), while
couching it in her “desire” to preserve the white mother’s mythic purity,
whose gratitude will make Lizzie whole and honorable. Lizzie will be
granted both innocence and citizenship through “Mother” Mary. The angel
is invoked to offer the sinner entry into heaven. By informing Lizzie of what
she is herself thinking about someone else who is allegedly thinking about
her, he is placing Lizzie in the look of the mother, through which Lizzie is
provided with a “white consciousness.” Though the Senator first seems to
respect her story and to grant her autonomy in it, he is far from doing so.
By making her the focus of how other white people see her, he incorporates
her into the seriality of white society and makes her white in his terms.
Citizenship in the town and allegiance to whiteness are not what Lizzie
wants, which is why she is able to resist the demands of political power. But
she wants to be considered good at her profession, and would like the elite, to
which Mary belongs, to recognize her as a good person. That would require
that she receive the gratitude of the matriarch for having paid obeisance.
In his play, Huis clos (No Exit), Sartre investigates the modes by which
one arrives at a desired identity through others, rather than through one’s
self-enacted authentic being in the world. A desired identity is dependent
upon the thoughts and opinions of others, and is thus an abandonment of
one’s freedom. In No Exit, each character seeks in bad faith to be known as
someone other than who they are, needing another to grant it. In The
Respectful Prostitute, the Senator turns this around. By looking in Lizzie’s
eyes, he performs the act of making her “look” the object of his own,
making her subjectivity his object. He tells her what she wants, and who
she wants to be, by his look, and his narrativization of Mary’s look, rather
66 Steve Martinot

than withholding it, as the characters do to each other in No Exit. Lizzie is

to be given a new identity, one she has not desired, through a woman she
does not know.
The “Mother” is a mythic figure in the play, the avatar for the white
socius. Fred jealously controls how his mother is to be mentioned, and by
whom. He pleads in the name of his mother to sanctify himself when he is
at a disadvantage — for instance, when Lizzie holds a gun on him. He
threatens Lizzie when she impugns his mother for not having taught him
sufficient respect for women. Thomas’s mother embodies the “good family”
Thomas comes from, and which will crumble if his acts of killing are to be
considered culpable murders. The mother is the avatar for inborn social
virtue, ultimately embodying the biologization of whiteness.
To supplement the mother, the Senator also provides a world-historic
framework. He invokes an equally mythic “Uncle Sam,” whom he casts in a
beatifying Socratic role (and here, the Hegelian Eurocentric dialectic finds its
proper place). Through the Senator’s voice, Uncle Sam asks Lizzie, since she
has to choose between two men, Thomas and the black man, how she is to
determine who the “better” man is. She finds herself trapped in the circle of
white supremacy: Thomas is the better man because he is a leading citizen,
and he is a leading citizen because he is the better man. Faced with this total-
ized and essentializing circle (adjoined to a decriminalizing ethical inversion
and an invocation of a mythic mother), Lizzie’s resolve weakens enough for
the Senator to help her sign the paper. After she signs, Thomas once again
becomes an honest leading citizen in the eyes of the law.
We do not have to look far for a contemporary analogue to the state-
ment Lizzie is induced to sign (against all her principles of fairness and
truth). In the 2000 election in Florida, well over one hundred thousand
people of color were prevented from voting, in what amounted to massive
illegal disenfranchisement.15 The following week, the NAACP collected ten
thousand sworn affidavits concerning improper obstruction from voting,
far more than Bush’s margin of victory. However, the Democratic Party lead-
ership ignored this in favor of simply recounting ballots, preferring thereby
to decriminalize the state’s criminal disfranchisement of its own citizens, and
valorize the participation of those to whom the state had limited its recog-
nition. Thus, the Democratic Party sought to affirm its membership in
whiteness. When the ballot issue was taken to the Supreme Court, the court
stopped the recount procedure in violation of the Voting Rights Act of 1965,
which makes it a felony to prevent all votes cast from being counted. Thus,
it sustained an extant disfranchisement, exonerated an electoral ignominy,
and rendered the nation complicit in an antidemocratic act. While the polit-
ical entanglements of organizations (such as parties) is more complex than
that of individuals in small towns, it is the relational structure inherent in
 Skin for Sale 67

these events (the play and the election) that reveals a congruence. If we spell
out the allegory suggested, Thomas, Fred, and the police play the role of the
Florida state government, the Senator plays the Democratic Party, Lizzie
plays the role of the people manipulated by the Democratic Party to save the
honor of the white state, and the paper Lizzie (the people) signs under the
Democratic Party’s hand and valorization plays the role of the Supreme
Court decision, clearing the state of all wrongdoing. As the Senator and the
others leave, Lizzie realizes that she has been had, in more ways than one.
Sartre is clear on what set Lizzie up. She has seen a man get shot to death
on the train, yet this has not impressed her as much as the thought of the
Senator’s sister’s grief at her son the killer being locked up for ten years. All
her principles fall away in the face of the mythos of whiteness and the
normativity of white supremacy. Against the imposition of white social iden-
tity, with all its inchoate desires and performances of belonging by which it
manipulates her mind, Lizzie has no defenses. Her consciousness is already
governed by her own whiteness, as racialized privilege, which the Senator
plays on. Though one could see gender solidarity as well in her act, it is
really gratitude that she desires from Mary, and acceptance (citizenship).
Later, when she holds a gun on Fred, intending to shoot him, he expati-
ates on how his family had tamed the land and the frontier, to found the
white nation upon it. He tells her she can’t kill the history he represents. She
acquiesces, and hands him the gun. In short, she is already white in a white
society, and what the Senator’s recognition of her subjectivity had done is
remind her of it.

The Performative Violence of Whiteness

These social structures of ethical inversion, consensus, myth, and member-
ship in the white socius constitute the framework in which a person under-
stands himself or recognizes himself as “white.” Yet the worldly “reality” of
these structures requires a social cohesion beyond the ethical inversion of
impunity. What leads white people to answer the call of consensus (Lizzie’s
acquiescence, the townspeople collecting in the street to save Thomas; the
charge of anti-Americanism levied against Sartre) is an identity involvement,
for which gratuitous violence is often the adjunct. To elucidate this, let us
return to the Senator’s performance, which has taken Lizzie in.
When the Senator has Lizzie look him in the eyes, fictionalizing to her
face what she is to be thinking at that moment, he is divesting her of subjec-
tive autonomy through what would constitute her subjectivity for him, her
look; and he is inscribing his own subjectivity in her. It is a subtle form of
thought control allied to the nonreciprocity of domination. He transforms
her look into an instrumentality for himself. It is this instrumentality that
68 Steve Martinot

permits her induction into the fold, through the credentials of Mother
Mary’s recognition and gratitude. Thus, while white racialized identity
withholds recognition from those it subordinates as the condition for its
own existence, it grants white identity through recognition as white. Not
only is “race” something one group does to another (see note 3), but in
granting whiteness to itself as membership, it recognizes whiteness as a
cultural act of licensing.
In staging their performances, the “mother” is only a “prop” for both Fred
and the Senator, to be used at appropriate moments (like Fred’s rhetorical
expressions—e.g., that a black person “has always done something”). These
props (stories, expressions, and recognitions) represent what Sartre would
call the “idea-hexis” of whiteness. They control the seriality of white racial-
ized society by providing the materialities around which that seriality is
constructed.
For Sartre, a serial collective requires some form of inert materiality in
terms of which to form. In his prototypic example, it is the bus at whose
terminal people line up, each with their own personal destinations; through
the bus, they collectively attain their separate ends (CDR, 256). “Hexis”
names the materiality around which each practical situation gains its social
stability, the objectivity of the situation (bus routes, for instance) to which
individual “praxis” addresses itself in its projects. It signifies the nature of
wood that a carpenter must understand in order to be able to shape it prop-
erly, for instance, with a different understanding than s/he would have to
have for cement. A basketball, soccer ball, and volleyball are all the same
shape, but each acts differently; in each game, the ball has to be played
differently. Each provides a different hexis around which each kind of team
develops its teamwork.
“Idea-hexis” is “hexis” in the form of idea or discourse (CDR, 300). The
“idea-hexis” of whiteness is the complex of props, stories, assumptions,
demands for consensus, and the language of racism to which obeisance and
acceptance is required by whites. In Sartre’s account of racial domination, it
is the language of racism that holds colonialist society together. The world
of that language, its contempt for those it appropriates and instrumental-
izes (CDR, 304), and the social values it gives itself and the other, constitute
a complex history of impunity and violence by which each white person is
linked to all others (CDR, 303). These links are at the same time projected
as universal values.16 And the universalized values created by white exigent
consensus invoke practices of racial assault and disparagement against those
excluded in advance from those universals. The idea-hexis of self-universal-
ization (of white racialized identity) constitutes the core of white seriality, its
unity in alterity (CDR, 301). It is to this “unity in alterity” that the black
man refers when he describes white strangers greeting each other as friends.
 Skin for Sale 69

They unite as strangers to reconfirm themselves as white through their serial

project to kill a black man in order to exonerate a white man.
In this “unity in alterity,” each grants the other credentials, as the Senator
does to Lizzie. Since black (or brown) people are misrecognized or not recog-
nized and prohibited subjectivity, and thus prohibited from granting subjec-
tivity to whites (through reciprocity or a dialogic look), the only source left
for white subjectivity is recognition of their social performance of whiteness
by other whites. The Senator’s performance sways Lizzie’s sense of justice,
accomplishing an alchemy of being where the threat of jail or physical vio-
lence had failed, because the performance offers belonging in the socius val-
orized by the myths of whiteness. Her incorporation in the town constitutes
an act of violence insofar as it requires her to be who she is not. But in being
given a white subjectivity through the Senator’s mythologization of Mary, she
becomes someone who can recognize herself only through the eyes of other
whites. Thus, she undergoes the additional violence of being scripted by
others, and judged in her performance of the script. Fred’s bad faith, his
racism, and his refusal of himself as a sexual being are all similar aspects of
being a plaything of one’s racialization, of the seriality of whiteness.
One can grasp the obsessiveness of this seriality of whiteness in the
unending use of racializing derogatory terms by whites. Derogatory terms
are prototypic elements of the white “idea-hexis.” They are not signifiers;
their purpose is only to express disdain, hate, or contempt. As Sartre
explains, they cannot be translated into real thoughts, nor formulated as
such (CDR, 300). Their meaning cannot be made the object of intentionali-
ties. Without substance or meaning, their significance lies in their use. Rather
than signifiers, their use constitutes acts of assault. The domain of their use
is defined by the surrounding structures of white hegemony and domination,
structures that give them their content as modes of assault. To speak these
terms is to adopt an attitude of aggressiveness and hostility. Though they
remain impoverished “verbal tools” (CDR, 304), they are the instruments by
which the white social world is organized as violence (CDR, 305). Thus as
idea-hexis, they provide membership in the seriality of the white socius.
Ultimately, the real referent for derogatory terms is not those assaulted
by them but the socius that deploys them as hexis for itself, for the purposes
of serial cohesion. Where the other (persons of color) remains essential as
both a presence and the core content of white identity, the phrases, presump-
tions, and derogatory terms of white idea-hexis are essential to white serial
sociality, to give its racialized identity form. This is what marks the structure
of white racialized identity as a socius of violence. The indispensable use of
derogation and hostility against the other for the purposes of white social
cohesion does not only constitute the way that the white socius recognizes
itself collectively but how it gives itself its meaning. Its means of hostility to
70 Steve Martinot

the other signify that collectivity to itself; that is, its existence in seriality is
maintained only through the constant invocation of (potential) violence, for
which the use of derogatory terms serve as proxy.
There is a compulsiveness implicit in the performance of aggressiveness in
the absence of any need, or indeed of a present target. The purpose of
endlessly engaging in denigration in white speech, as a form of “noticing”
black people (especially in their absence), marks an obsessiveness among
whites about belonging, about confirming membership through “paying
those dues.” Insofar as this compulsiveness is internal to the construction of
white racialized identity, it marks the insecurity of social seriality, a need
for more and more props. The entire complex of comportments, of terms,
myths, fictions, and fictionalizations of those one confronts, as things one
does “without thinking,” remain “unthought” because they are obsessive.
White subjectivity finds itself doubly serialized: first, in being condemned to
relate to other whites across an idea-hexis that has no meaning other than
membership; and second, in relying on other whites to bestow white identity
through approbation of one’s performance of whiteness for them.
Herein lies the necessity of impunity, on which Thomas counted in his
assault on both Lizzie and the black men on the train. In performing his
whiteness (and his masculinism) as contempt and hate, he is relating to other
whites (and other men) for purposes of membership, to play his role as a
leading citizen. That is, his citizenship in a law-governed society (in which
murder, fraudulent testimony, and tampering with evidence are all crimes)
is trumped by his citizenship in the white socius. The white socius becomes
fraudulent with respect to law-governed society. Thomas’s (and Fred’s)
autonomy as persons becomes fraudulent insofar as they must mark their
membership in the white socius as of a higher order than that in law-
governed society. The framework of whiteness constitutes a system of norms
by which one “acts” white in the eyes of other whites. It dispenses with the
norms of law-governed society, which then functions merely as a “cover
story” for it. It is this framework that brings the town’s people into the
streets searching for a victim, not only to approve Thomas, but to recognize
each other. It is the doubled social framework, with its double seriality, that
gives the play’s action its familiarity for those in the real world, both that of
1947, and today.
To have set black people obsessively at the core of white identity (in the
real world) produces the narcissistic necessity to extricate white identity
from them, that is, to continually evict them from white subjectivity. But it is
also to pretend to an independence in the performance of whiteness that
remains dependent on other whites. This is the real content of the gratuitous
violence by which whiteness maintains itself, and testifies to the depth of
the alienation of white identity. White racialized identity cannot know who
 Skin for Sale 71

or what it is, since its center lies doubly elsewhere. This is the ground on
which criminality and the inversion of criminality becomes not only
possible, but indispensable.
White racialized identity condemns itself to the performance of violence
for all renewal of a sense of self. Its gratuitous violence condemns it and its
racism to having no real referent beyond that violence itself. Whites make
reference to their history, as does Fred, but it is only a history of violence, of
conquest, the seizure of land from others, the enslavement of people
kidnapped from afar, and the degradation of human personhood. In the
contemporary United States, the mass incarceration of black and brown
people has taken the place of these other historical modes of violence, as an
expression of the way white society chooses to affirm itself under the cover
of being “law-governed.”

The Structure of Racialized Identity

The compulsive irrationality of racialized violence, of segregation, of gratu-
itous hostility, of obsessive incarceration, as we have seen, reflect what Sartre
calls an impotence (CDR, 302), the “violence of impotence” (CDR, 304). On
top of the incapacity to simply be without the appropriation and control of
the other, there is the need to feel threatened, the creation of a sense of
being threatened through which to gain approbation for the violence of
that appropriation. It is a double violence, conjoined in the prohibition of
the other’s look, the inability to withstand the potential threat attributed to
that look.
The serial need for a threat, and its endless social reinvention in the
subordinated other, constitutes a communal paranoia as one of the essential
components of the social structure of white racialized identity. This sense of
paranoia relies upon and generates (as impunity) a white solidarity against
the perceived threat, which its violence concretizes, and in so doing, makes
the threat seem real. All this transpires doubly in the play. The presence of
the black men on the train is something that must be met with an attack, in
which the four white men are immediately in concert; and when Thomas
shoots one of the black men, the town closes ranks to valorize the shooting
by accepting the criminalization of the black man. To have accepted the
criminalization of the black man for having allegedly assaulted Lizzie is to
have extended the threat to the town as a whole, where the cycle continues.
Having invented this threat, the elite and the white townspeople come
together, and a lynch mob forms.17
As represented in the play, the threat that is so essential to whiteness is
always and everywhere a mythic threat, necessarily self-generated for the
purposes of identification with a serial socius. When the threat becomes real,
72 Steve Martinot

through a mass civil rights movement, for instance, the idea-hexis of white
supremacy must hide because it faces a world that is no longer intelligible
to it. It retreats into law-governed society, allows the state to negotiate in
order to stall for time, and reorders whiteness through eventual repression.
The civil rights legislations passed during the 1960s were eventually evis-
cerated or repealed in the 1980s, accompanied by the massive imprisonment
of people of color through reinvented myths of criminalization. Today,
though one-eighth of the U.S. population, black people outnumber whites in
arrests, indictments, and convictions by a ratio of eight to one. As a result,
the United States, with 6 percent of the world’s population, holds 25 percent
of the world’s prisoners, 75 percent of whom are people of color.18 The form
the new impunity takes (the old form being chain gangs and Jim Crow) is a
system of victimless crime laws, police profiling, and the ideology of “color-
blindness.” Indeed, in violating all odds and averages, the violence of the
mass imprisonment of people of color signifies that white serial society has
again trumped law-governed society even within the domain of law and
judiciality. As long as the threat is mythic and self-generated by white
society, violence in all its gratuitousness can be justified.
The final violence of the play is the appropriation of Lizzie, her disposses-
sion as white womanhood in white society. In the last scene, Fred reappears
and informs Lizzie that the mob caught a black man (a different one, but no
matter) and killed him—gratuitously, for nothing more than his existence.
Fred then tells Lizzie that watching the man die made him (Fred) sexually
excited; so he has rushed to Lizzie’s apartment to take possession of her. He
expresses his intention to house her in a middle-class home to wait upon his
desires, a toy to cater to his whims. Now it is in Lizzie whom Fred needs to
objectify his identity, and to refuse all subjective reciprocity. Because he has
little interest in sexuality, he must create an idea-hexis by which to realize
himself. He reminds her that she remarked that morning that he excited her,
and he makes her repeat it, to pay obeisance to it. At the very moment of
seizing her, of taking control of her, he must refocus her subjectivity, as the
correlate of the dependence on her that he creates for himself. The structure
of that dependence, in its minuteness, is analogous to the structure of societal
dependence of white racialized identity on black people.
In Fred’s culminating masculinist gesture, Sartre also portrays a sense of
the degenerate ecstasy (sexual or not) that drives the white mob to the
violence it heaps on black people. In 1916, fifteen thousand people showed
up to watch Jesse Washington be slowly tortured to death in broad daylight
in front of City Hall, and then scrambled to get a piece of his charred body
to take home as a souvenir.19 Torment is at the heart of the violent construc-
tion of white identity, because death isn’t sufficient to nullify the threat it has
created for itself. In other words, the gratuitous violence against the mythic
 Skin for Sale 73

threat whiteness concocts for itself, which mediates its solidarist consensus,
is not an aberration. It is a travesty that expresses an essential norm of the
social structure of whiteness.
In its reliance on a mythic threat, white racialized identity reveals desper-
ation, a psychological and emotional need for a tortured victim. The
contemporary production of prisons, and indeed, the present modifications
of the concept of prison, appear wholly natural to it in this sense. Today,
imprisonment goes beyond its original juridical function as punishment for
violation of the law; it has become instead the place where punishment is
meted out. A convicted person is placed in prison not as punishment, but in
order to then be punished beyond the fact of being imprisoned. Torture has
become routine in all prisons in the United States, whether directly at the
guards hands or through the instrumentality of other prisoners. And “super-
max” prisons have been built whose purpose is to drive inmates’ insane.20
These practices are not a Foucauldian structure of discipline, but rather an
extension of the structure of whiteness, a mode of sadism which Sartre
recognized as inherent in white supremacist bad faith.
At the end of the play, a kind of existential solidarity emerges between
Lizzie and the black man, both victims of a social order that lives on
torment, as they listen to the mob search the town. When some of the vigi-
lantes knock at Lizzie’s door, she hides the black man and bluffs the mob.
Still, she and the black man are confounded by the single-minded obsessive-
ness of the town in its search for this man who has done nothing. The town’s
hate and cohesion succeed in generating feelings of guilt in both, which
almost override their determination to survive (RP, 277). When this confuses
Lizzie, he assures her, “that’s how it always goes with white folks” (RP,
278). It is a statement of resignation, of the inexorability of white obses-
siveness, violence, and “unity in alterity.” But it implicitly recognizes the
fanatical superseding of the law, governed by the structure of whiteness.

Notes
1. New York Herald Tribune, Nov. 13, 1946. Susan Keane calls it a “difficult
play for American readers” in a review in Modern Language Journal 66.2:
206. Even as astute a reader as Hazel Barnes gave it short shrift. In Humanist
Existentialism, she misrepresents some important details, misconstrues the
central plot motif, and expresses a strange disbelief in the gratuitousness of
southern racist violence. She evidently had not yet read Ida Wells. Barnes’s ulti-
mate focus was on the extent to which Lizzie is rendered a “thing.” Hazel
Barnes, Humanist Existentialism (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press,
1959), 73.
2. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Black Orpheus,” trans. David MacCombie, The Massachu-
setts Review, 6 (Autumn 1964): 13–52; Antisemite and Jew (New York:
Schocken, 1948), hereafter cited as ASJ; Notebooks for an Ethics, trans. David
Pallauer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), hereafter cited as Ethics;
74 Steve Martinot
“The Respectful Prostitute” in No Exit (New York: Vintage, 1956), hereafter
cited as RP.
3. As Walter Mignolo points out in Local Histories, Global Designs (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 2000), the idea of “race” had originally been
proposed to reduce those from whom colonialists stole land to a level at which
they could no longer make a claim on that land or on their own past. See also
David Walker, Appeal to the Colored Citizens of the World (New York: Hill
and Wang, 1995); Ashley Montague, in The Concept of Race (New York:
Collier, 1969), made an early argument that there was no biological basis for
it. Recently, various critiques of whiteness as a social structure have appeared.
See, for instance, David Roediger, Wages of Whiteness (New York: Verso,
1991); Theodore Allen, The Invention of the White Race (New York: Verso,
1997); and Steve Martinot, The Rule of Racialization (Philadelphia: Temple
University Press, 2003).
It is important to understand “race” as relational. That is, it should be
understood as a verb, and not a noun; the verb is “to racialize.” “Race” is
something one group of people does to another (necessarily with brutality, and
as a justification for brutality). Insofar as race was invented in the European
colonies in the Americas, it is a process whereby whites racialized themselves
as white through their racialization (subordination, inferiorization, dehuman-
ization) of others, as nonwhite. This idea of “race” as a social structure has
generally remained unintelligible to most white people, which might explain
the paucity of commentary on Sartre’s play.
4. A contemporary form this resistance takes, at the juridical level, is the attack
on affirmative action as a “quota system,” and “reverse racism,” conveniently
refusing or ignoring the fact that the entire history of segregation amounted to
a 100 percent quota system for whites. The contortions concerning the concept
of “racism” that the state and various (white) citizens organizations have gone
through to overturn affirmative action is astounding. For instance, the govern-
ment’s proclamation that the passage of civil rights legislation had produced a
colorblind society was eagerly grasped by whites, who could then accuse those
who still charged racial discrimination of being “racist” for having brought up
the issue. Colorblindness still sees color; but the only color it can see is white.
Thus, it amounts to an alternate disguised form of discrimination.
5. Those who have seen the photos of lynching mobs (and there are many)
cannot avoid being struck by the festive atmosphere often surrounding the acts
of torture in progress. People smile, talk among themselves, sometimes with
drinks in their hands, as if content with their work, the reconstitution of their
sacred social framework. Without Sanctuary, ed. James Allen (Santa Fe: Twin
Palms, 2000); see in particular, the photo of Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith,
Aug. 7, 1930, Marion, Indiana.
6. Sartre expresses another version of this in ASJ. He ventriloquizes the anti-
semite: “By treating the Jew as an inferior and pernicious being, I affirm at the
same time that I belong to the elite. . . . There is nothing I have to do to merit
my superiority, and neither can I lose it. It is given to me once and for all”
(ASJ, 27). With respect to a black person or a Jew being rendered a priori the
embodiment of evil, see ASJ, 39–40; good then consists in treating such people
destructively.
7. There is an international movement attempting to get Mumia a retrial. The
facts of the case, and of the movement’s efforts are mostly found on webpages.
Cf. www.mumia.org; www.freemumia.org;
en.wikipedia.org/wikiMumia_Abu-Jamal. What is most often omitted in
accounts of the case is the most glaring omission in the case itself, viz. that the
police did no test for gun shot residue on Mumia’s hands.
 Skin for Sale 75

8. This structure even appears in the preparations for the invasion and occupa-
tion of Iraq. The invasion was a criminal act, an unprovoked attack on a
sovereign nation; a prima facie violation of the UN Charter, and thus of the
U.S. Constitution (Art. VI, sec. 2). It violated the principle of national sover-
eignty, whose inviolability is taught in high school civics classes throughout
the United States. What made the invasion acceptable to mainstream U.S.
opinion was the familiarity given it by ethical inversion. The United States
decriminalized its invasion by criminalizing all Iraqis who rose in resistance
against the invasion and occupation in defense of their country. Though
racism or white supremacy did not play an overt role in the invasion, the struc-
ture of self-valorization axiomatic to white racialized domination as a cultural
logic of the United States validated the invasion for the American mind. Cf.
Steve Martinot, “The Whiteness of the Assault on Iraq,” in Socialism and
Democracy 34.2 (Summer, 2003): 165–69.
9. In 1954, for instance, a black man was charged and convicted of rape in
Florida for speaking to a white woman on the telephone, and sentenced to
fifteen years in prison. See New York Times, April 11, 1954, 8.
10. Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans. Hazel Barnes (New York:
Philosophical Library, 1956), 262ff; hereafter cited as BN.
11. The volume is edited by Léopold Senghor, of Senegal, as an expression of
black self-awareness, which Sartre labels, following Aimé Césaire, as “negri-
tude.” Negritude represents black subjectivity become aware of itself as such.
Expatriot African intellectuals, encountering common elements of African
thought while in Paris, and laying claim to them, transformed their identity by
throwing off the inferiority complex colonialism had imposed on them, and
formed what came to be known as the negritude movement. Sartre’s essay
played a role in establishing the meaning of the term “negritude” in Europe as
such. Before that, the movement had no such logo. Sartre continued his
involvement with the African expatriots, helping to found their journal,
Présence Africaine. He is, in fact, the one who suggested that name. Sartre was
not the first white European intellectual to listen to African thought. Indeed,
African thought and imagery has had a profound effect on Europe, and Paris
in particular, since the beginning of the century. The use of such imagery in
modernist painting, cubism, and philosophy had flourished before World War
II.
12. Jean-Paul Sartre, Critique of Dialectical Reason, trans. Alan Sheridan-Smith
(London: New Left, 1976), 300; hereafter cited as CDR.
13. W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk (New York: Fawcett, 1961), 16.
14. Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (New York: Grove, 1967), 133.
15. Greg Palast, The Best Democracy Money Can Buy (London: Pluto, 2002).
16. The paradoxical or aporetic nature of the universal was exemplified by the
debates over slavery that occurred in the United States in the early nineteenth
century. Positions on slavery ranged from considering it morally evil to
morally proper, from an unconscionable stain upon the United States as a
democratic society to being the very essence of freedom insofar as absolute
freedom means the ability to dominate absolutely. What remained unquestion-
able was the universal right of whites to discuss and decide the status,
condition, and destiny of black people as such, without the participation of
black people themselves, that is, not as universal but restricted to whites. The
precedent for this “universality” emanated from the Declaration of Indepen-
dence, which restricted its concept of “universal” freedom to white men by
refusing to proclaim the abolition of slavery as a condition of independence.
The violation of democratic principle, Fred would say, doesn’t matter; all that
matters is black and white.
76 Steve Martinot
Sartre would argue that the very existence of a debate on slavery meant that
slavery was not natural and that slaves were men and not naturally slaves
(Ethics, 564). For whites to debate only among themselves whether black
people should be allowed the franchise, or admitted into the democratic order
as participants, is already to have corrupted and destroyed that order. The law
that enfranchised black people is nothing but white law; and the franchise
allows black admission into what remains a white institutionality, governed by
white law. As a case in point, in the wake of the civil rights movements and
the Voting Rights Act, black people became a minority, along with Latinos,
Native Americans, Asians, etc. (and women). But “minority” status only signi-
fies a change in language by which the “other” is named (using the language of
democratic procedure). White society defines black people as a minority a
priori, prior to any vote, as a way of defining itself as the majority by exclu-
sion (of each minority). That is, “minoritization” has the same structure as
racialization. Using the rhetoric of voting strength, it constitutes the majori-
tarian status of an exclusionary white constituency, under the pretense of a
recognized demographic. True democratic procedure would not assume a sepa-
rate black voting bloc, nor categorize it as such (even if black people voted
together), but recognize a majority and a “minority” only after the vote had
been taken. In its present racialized sense, “majoritarian” status (self-defined
by defining “minorities”) simply becomes another “universal” institutionality
around which exclusionary whites coalesce.
17. The profundity of the existence of this structure can be gauged by its appear-
ance in contemporary events, and its function to make such events acceptable
to the mainstream American. The invasion of Iraq was a wanton unprovoked
attack on a sovereign nation, illegal under international and constitutional law.
To gain acceptance for an invasion of Iraq, a paranoia was developed through
invented intelligence about Iraq. An attempt at international solidarity was
made, and used to develop a national consensus on the danger from that
country. Then violence was promulgated in the form of a military assault, in
the face of which the falseness of all initial reasons for invading dissolved.
Even large elements of the antiwar movement joined the exigent solidarity that
couched itself in terms of “supporting the troops”—despite the fact that every
step U.S. troops took on Iraqi soil was a criminal act. The solidarity was a
response to the paranoia, which then realized itself in violence that made the
paranoia seem real. The violence legitimizes the paranoia, the paranoia legit-
imizes the racial solidarity, and the social solidarity legitimizes the violence,
around and around, endlessly. Cf. Martinot, The Rule of Racialization, 68.
Racism did not have to appear as an overt element of the invasion; it was the
structure of racialization—paranoia, solidarity, and violence—that rendered
the invasion acceptable because familiar, and familiar because an analogue to
the structure of whiteness.
18. The most extensive and up-to-date reports on prisons in the United States are
to be found at www.prisonsucks.com/factsheets.shtml. See also Angela Davis,
“Masked Racism,” in Colorlines, 1.2 (Fall 1998): 11.
19. Grace Hale, Making Whiteness (New York: Pantheon, 1998), 217.
20. Janis Shields, “Widespread Torture Exists in U.S. Prisons”; American Friends
Service Committee Report, Nov. 11, 2005. Available at www.afsc.org; H.
Bruce Franklin, “The American Prison and the Normalization of Torture”
(2002), available at www.historiansagainstwar.org/resources/torture/bruce-
franklin.html; and Deborah Davies, “Torture: America’s Brutal Prisons” (May
23, 2005), available at http://globalresearches.ca/articles/DAV505A.html.
 Chapter 3

The Persistence of Colonialism

Sartre, the Left, and Identity in Postcolonial France,
1970–1974
Paige Arthur

On November 6, 1973, Sartre lost a court battle to eight editors of the

extreme right-wing weekly Minute. They had sued him for defamation,
making death threats, and justifying the crime of destruction by explosives,
and he was ordered to pay each of them a 400 franc fine.1 The reason for the
conviction was an article that had appeared in the Maoist newspaper La
Cause du peuple. Sartre had become the director of the organ in May 1970
in an effort to keep it alive after its editors, Jean-Pierre Le Dantec and Michel
Le Bris, were arrested. Minute, according to the article in La Cause du
peuple, was staffed by “the poorly purged of the Liberation and those who
had been in the half-pay of the OAS”—referring to the right-wing French
terrorist organization that had worked to prevent Algerian independence
from France in the early 1960s. The Maoists warned “all of the Kollabora-
tors of this newspaper, director and editors alike, that . . . we will not publish
their addresses and leave to others the task of acting with our blessing. We
will keep them, but we affirm that we will know how to use them if the need
is felt.”2 The court judged that the article’s threatening words had gone too
far, and that Sartre as director was accountable: “While strongly pointing
out the dangerous and illegal consequences risked by the consistently violent,
not to mention hateful, style of the editors of Minute who are contesting him
in this court today,” the judge announced, “Sartre employed, for his part, in
the article of June 21, 1972, a style and a vocabulary comparable in every
way to theirs.”3
This particular fight was merely an extension of a series of hostile
exchanges between Minute and La Cause du peuple, many of which were
ideological contests over the proper contents of French nationality, and thus
which consistently made reference to defining and divisive historical events
such as the Algerian war for independence. The political struggle over post-
colonial French identity was thus already in full sway. Sartre would, in the

77
78 Paige Arthur

early 1970s, operate both as an actor and as a symbol in the struggle’s

debates. Minute had been tracking the activities and pronouncements of
Maoists and other gauchistes to whom it invariably referred under various
pejorative names. But it had always had a special, enduring interest in Sartre,
the “pope of the Revolution,” viciously reviewing his books, acerbically
commenting on his political positions, and passing along gossip on his health
and personal life.4
Sartre was a convenient lightening rod for criticism of the radical Left,
and an effective magnet for criticisms of Third Worldist sympathies. Thus,
when Minute’s offices were bombed in May 1971, its editors blamed the
“gauchiste dogs,” but named Sartre on its front page: “Sartre, you are the
criminal!” read the tabloid-style block type across an image of the building’s
damaged exterior. The hostilities escalated further the following month,
when Minute made the pronouncements of La Cause du peuple and other
gauchiste publications for which Sartre had also assumed responsibility for
similar reasons, such as Tout and J’accuse, the centerpiece of a campaign to
have Sartre jailed. “We accuse!” and “To prison, Sartre!” its June 1971
cover lines read.5 According to the editors of Minute, the authorities had
been indulging Sartre’s incitements to “disorder, pillage, and hatred.”6 Thus,
the editors surmised, it would only be by taking matters into their own
hands that Sartre might be brought to “justice.” As their defense attorney
intimated at the trial: “I am pleased to finally see M. Sartre in front of a
judge, and I regret that the prosecutor did not take the initiative in this
action.”7
The court’s decision was a minor censure, taken on behalf of a group of
extremist editors whose wish was to stamp out Sartre and his radical
support of Third World liberation movements, immigrant workers, and
cultural pluralism—as well as the democratic experimentation he and others
advocated to achieve greater freedom and participation for all. As I show in
this chapter, this minor censure developed over the first half of the 1970s
into a broader critique of such views that spanned the Right-Left divide in
France, and that strongly colored debates on the inclusiveness of French
democracy.

Postcolonial Culture Wars

The battles of extreme Right and Left between Minute and Sartre help
bring into focus some of the key political contests of the early 1970s, as
well as Sartre’s own function in those contests, which was both active and
symbolic. One of Minute’s central missions was to protect and foster an inte-
gralist conception of French nationality. After all, Minute had been founded
in April 1962 by Algérie française supporter Jean-François Devay, and one
 The Persistence of Colonialism 79

of its key contributors was François Brigneau, a leader of the right-wing

group Ordre Nouveau (banned in 1973 after an anti-immigrant protest
turned violent) and a founder of the Front National in 1972. Sartre and the
gauchistes challenged Minute’s mission in two crucial ways. First, they
defended the place of non-European immigrants in French society. Second,
they participated in the shift of regionalism away from its traditional home
on the Right, and toward a radical democratic defense of cultural pluralism.
On both counts, Sartre and the gauchistes were interested in rethinking
democratic practice in France in ways they took to be more inclusive and a
direct challenge to the forces of order, and to do so they relied strongly on
radical critiques of colonialism developed during the era of decolonization
and adapted to new social conditions.
In keeping with these aims, gauchiste publications such as La Cause du
peuple had made immigrants’ working and living conditions in France a
staple issue in their pages. Likewise, Sartre, continuing his decades-long
concern with race and racism, took an active part in bringing attention to
both the social and political stakes at work in the absorption and protec-
tion of immigrants in French society. Although Michel Wieviorka opens his
book La France raciste with the claim that “the return of the theme of
racism on the political agenda dates from the 1980s and the growth of the
Front National,”8 this return really should be dated a decade earlier, making
the success of the Front National partly a consequence of that return, not
its cause. The fact that the French parliament passed a law against racism in
1972 for which the Mouvement Contre le Racisme et Pour l’Amitié Entre les
Peuples had lobbied for thirteen years suggests the political urgency of
racism in the early 1970s. The law prohibited racial discrimination in
employment, housing, and services, gave the government the power to
disband organizations that promoted racial hatred, and extended provi-
sions against incitement to racial violence to include racial insults.9
Both Sartre and his Gauche Proletarienne collaborators frequently
invoked both the historical examples (typically, that of Algeria) and theo-
ries of colonialism in their analyses and condemnations of the mistreatment
of immigrants. This importation of the radical critique of colonialism back
to the Metropole was symptomatic of an important trend of the early 1970s,
particularly among left-wing activists and intellectuals. Discussions of “the
new racism” (the title of a 1972 essay by Sartre, published in both La Cause
du peuple and Le Nouvel Observateur), for example, centered on the vexing
problem of tolerance of significant non-European and non-Christian popu-
lations, making explicit reference to the residues of racism from the colonial
era.10 But the usage of the radical critique of colonialism was not confined
to émigrés of the postcolonial diasporas; it was applied to national minori-
ties within Europe as well. In the case of France, the strongest regionalist
80 Paige Arthur

movements sprang up in Brittany and Occitanie; in these cases, separatists

often used the model of “internal colonialism”—an application and modifi-
cation of the core-periphery model used in dependency theory—to describe
what they viewed as the historical process of both cultural and economic
oppression.11
This chapter examines Sartre’s involvement in theorizing racism and
collective identity, and it explains the eclipse of his influence in intellectual
discourse by the mid- to late 1970s. His interventions on behalf of immi-
grant workers and regionalist movements were, I show, linked both
conceptually and politically for thinkers and activists involved with the
radical noncommunist Left. For his part, Sartre adapted the radical critique
of colonialism and racism he developed in the 1950s and early 1960s in
response to the war in Algeria and Third World liberation movements to
contemporary social problems in early 1970s France, as did many other
gauchistes. Just as he had used these earlier analyses to support liberation
movements abroad, Sartre sought to find ways in the postcolonial era to
deepen France’s democracy by highlighting and publicizing its various exclu-
sions, thereby supporting homegrown liberation struggles. By the
mid-1970s, however, a new discourse on cultural assimilation came to the
fore, pushed mainly by the rising Socialist Party and its adherents: a new
“universalism” that valued human rights over the protection of particular
identities, and that tended to excoriate defenders of particularism on the Left
as outmoded and perhaps “totalitarian” defenders of third world revolu-
tionary practices gone awry. In the wake of this shift, Sartre’s model of
each human being as a “singular universal”— which he used to support
cultural autonomy claims in the 1970s — was pushed aside in favor of a
vision of universal tolerance fostered by supporters of the Socialist Party. I
suggest that it might be worthwhile to reconsider the positions of Sartre
and the gauchistes since, thirty years after these events, many of the same
identity issues I discuss in this chapter remain contentious and unresolved.

“Reverse” Colonialism: Anti-immigrant Racism

and French Identitarian Concerns
True to its ideological formation, Minute, whose editorial tone was often
openly racist, vigorously denied the possibility of assimilating increasingly
numerous non-European immigrants.12 These immigrants, whose political
visibility from the late 1960s forward was on the rise, had become important
tokens in the struggle between Left and Right in the immediate postcolonial
era. By the early 1970s, the stakes concerning immigrants from North Africa
in particular began to be sharply contested. In January 1971, Algerian pres-
ident Houari Boumedienne closed off French companies’ access to Algerian
 The Persistence of Colonialism 81

oil, a step toward nationalizing the oil industry, which he ultimately took in
1973. This event led to an intensification of Minute’s attacks and a veri-
table obsession with Algerian immigrants: “Enough of Algeria!” one
headline read. “They’re chasing us out . . . now let’s chase them out!”13 In an
issue devoted to Algerians in France later that month, the contributors
employed stereotypically racist arguments to define the “threat” that such
immigrants posed: Algerians’ “natural” way of life makes for unsanitary
living conditions; refusing to live alone, whether in order to save money or
because of “racial instinct,” they “reconstitute their tribes”; and they are
incapable of taking care of property, for example the lodgings given to
them.14
But Minute was by no means alone in its concern with Algerian immi-
grants, nor in initiating a backlash against them driven by the Algerian
government’s nationalization of private enterprises. According to sociolo-
gists Alain Gillette and Abdelmalek Sayad, the French government’s decision
to reduce the number of entries granted to Algerian immigrants (from a net
total of thirty-five thousand to twenty-five thousand) in 1971 was partly
motivated by its “irritation” at such economic interference. 15 By 1973,
Minute’s descriptions of the “problem” of Algerian immigration had become
even more insistent, using terms such as “invasion” and “race war.”16 Once
again, the newspaper linked its denunciation of the presence of North
Africans on French soil to world events related to oil, in this case OPEC’s
oil shock.17
Certainly the rapid growth of the Algerian population to the early 1970s
represented the most significant shift in the demographics of the immigrant
population in France, which had traditionally been dominated by Italians,
Poles, and Spaniards. Other non-European populations grew as well,
including Moroccans and Tunisians, and the sub-Saharan African popula-
tion went from being negligible before decolonization to sixty-five thousand
by 1972. Minute’s and others’ reactions to these changes signaled the advent
of non-European immigration not just as a social but also as a political issue
in France. Jean-Marie Le Pen founded the Front National in 1972, thereby
inserting the question of the protection of an “integral” French identity
directly into electoral politics, though his party did not have any significant
electoral success until the 1980s—partly owing to the political schism on the
extreme Right between him and Minute’s Brigneau beginning in 1974.
Thus, the early 1970s represented a conjuncture in which immigration,
racism, xenophobia, and the politics of extremes intersected broadly. Yet it
may also in some ways be a misleading conjuncture, as the historian of
French immigration Gérard Noiriel points out, since it obscures the fact
that France has had a long history of immigration and its concomitant prob-
lems of assimilation. Still, what seems unique about this particular period
82 Paige Arthur

was the intense politicization of intellectuals concerning the issue of immi-

gration, and in particular those actively doing research on it. It was in this
era, Noiriel explains, that “a combination of Marxism and anticolonialism
assured the fortunes of a new term, the ‘immigrant worker’—little used until
then. With decolonization, two previously unrelated research trends melted
together: immigration studies per se and studies of the colonial world.”18
Like Minute, racism was a central theme of La Cause du peuple in 1971,
as the editors published articles calling for a “war on racism” in order to
“strike back” at racists.19 Though it is unclear what (if any) role Sartre
played in the development of these articles, they nonetheless demonstrate
strong affinities with his own position—taking on the issues of racism and
immigration—as well as, for him, the centrality of colonialism to under-
standing those contemporary issues. One of Sartre’s first attempts to help
publicize the conditions of life and work for non-European immigrants came
in 1970 when he spoke at an event celebrating the publication of the Livre
des travailleurs africains en France.20 The text of his speech, “The Third
World Begins in the Banlieue,” was published in Tricontinental later that
year21 and it marked in a rather prescient way many of the issues that would
dominate political discussion concerning relations with non-Western coun-
tries and peoples for the coming decade and beyond: the social, economic,
and cultural problems of immigration; the contemporary conjuncture of
racism with economic and demographic pressures pushing and pulling
people across borders; the persistence of colonialism, whether on the level of
economics (neocolonialism) or the level of ideas (as a model for social
oppression and exclusion); and, finally, the possibility of freedom for the
least favored of the world, beaten down in this case by poverty and exploita-
tion, but in other cases, by repressive governments in their home countries.
It seems likely that this text was influenced by the January 1970 deaths
of five Malians living in an immigrants’ foyer (or “vertical” bidonville, as
such temporary quarters were sometimes called) in Aubervilliers. As was
common practice, they had tried to use gas as a source of heat, and they died
by asphyxiation. Sartre was among the intellectuals (including Michel Leiris
and Jean Genet) who participated in the demonstrations organized around
the immigrants’ funerals on January 10, thereby drawing press attention to
what was a persistent problem in France’s growing bidonvilles.22 In “The
Third World Begins in the Banlieue,” Sartre broadened the discussion
beyond the bidonvilles themselves, insisting throughout on the necessity of
understanding the position of African workers through the lens of colo-
nialism. He argued that, in fact, colonial conditions had been reproduced in
the metropole: the Malthusianism of the market (and lack of social protec-
tions), the insalubrious and overcrowded housing, the denial of training to
improve skills, the systematic insecurity of jobs, the development of racism
 The Persistence of Colonialism 83

as a means of control—each of these conditions recreated, in Sartre’s view,

the colonial situation he had been describing since the mid-1950s, in partic-
ular in his classic 1956 essay “Colonialism Is a System.”
As Sartre’s and others’ participation in demonstrations against terrible
living conditions in the bidonvilles indicates, the “war” against racism
directed at non-European immigrants, though actively promoted by
gauchiste groups such as the Gauche Proletarienne, attracted support from
many different quarters — even if that support did not run very deep on
either the Left or the Right.23 Sartre and other intellectuals, such as Michel
Foucault, Claude Mauriac, Gilles Deleuze, Genet, and Leiris, banded
together on numerous occasions in order to bring public attention to police
brutality, inhuman living conditions, or racist acts. On the occasion of the
shooting death of a young Arab, Mohamed Diab, by a police officer in 1972,
Sartre drafted the petition/essay “The New Racism,” which was signed by
137 intellectuals.
“The New Racism” incorporated many of the old themes of Sartre’s
polemics from the French-Algerian War, and, like “The Third World Begins
in the Banlieue,” it set contemporary racism specifically in the context of
French colonialism and decolonization. According to Sartre, the “new”
racism was a direct consequence of the creation of impoverished “colonies”
in the metropole. In this “reverse” colonialism, it was the “colonized” French
who held the power and thus set the rules for systematic exploitation and
exclusion, and it was they who this time justified their power through the
invention of everyday practices and terms of thinking that make the immi-
grant worker into a subhuman. “Thus was born a new racism,” Sartre wrote,
“that wanted to make the immigrants live in terror and remove their desire
to protest against the conditions of life that were made for them”—echoing
arguments he had employed in “Colonialism Is a System” and in more fuller
form in the Critique of Dialectical Reason, volume 1 (1960). These some-
what sketchy ideas (in an admittedly very brief article) about reverse
colonialism were not Sartre’s only references in this text, however; he also
made use of the memory of the French-Algerian War to argue for his point
of view. “We will not accept the rebirth of this ideology of the idiotic that
we knew all too well during the French-Algerian War,” he wrote. And, “From
1956 to 1962, we struggled so that victory for the Algerians would be
lasting. For them, first of all, but also for us: so that the shame of racism
would disappear from French thinking.”24
Sartre’s take on the “new” racism fit in unlikely ways with that of his
foes at Minute, as both of their discursive strategies relied upon under-
standing current social problems through the lens of colonialism. In their
September 1973 nine-page portfolio on the Algerian “invasion,” the writers
reiterated a host of colonialist tropes to decry the intrusion of “medinas,”
84 Paige Arthur

“casbahs,” and “souks” into French cities, all the while strongly denying that
they were motivated by racism in any way.25 For Minute, the integration of
North Africans was impossible for the simple reason that “they don’t want
it”— they wanted, instead, to maintain their own culture, by frequenting
cinemas in which “only Arabic language films are shown,” for example.26
Apparently another integral part of North African culture being imported to
France were the diseases brought about by close and unhygienic living condi-
tions, as well as an anti-Republican political life in which “the FNL [sic] is
still the boss.”27
What is important here is not the quality of the analyses offered on the
issue of non-European immigration, but rather the fact that colonialism
and decolonization were themselves still powerfully in play as symbolic chips
in these political debates. After all, as Noiriel has taken such pains to show
in The French Melting Pot, contests over immigrants and assimilation were
nothing new; what was new in this case was that they took place in the
still-vexing shadow of decolonization. Moreover, it was those very decolo-
nized people—and not, for example, Portuguese immigrants, who by the
mid-1970s were as numerous as Algerians in France28—who bore the brunt
of the identitarian discourse taking shape in the postcolonial era. This is
perhaps why racism and antiracism played a key discursive role in estab-
lishing the stakes of the debate, just as it had for anticolonialists when they
were fighting colonialism.
Take, for example, one of the central problems of the late 1960s and
beyond: the provision of adequate housing for immigrants in habitats à loyer
modéré (HLM; subsidized housing) or other dwellings, and the elimination
of the bidonvilles. While politicians and bureaucrats struggled unsuccess-
fully with supplying the resources and will necessary to the task of providing
adequate housing under these economic conditions, gauchistes and Ordre
Nouveau adherents effectively replayed some of the battles of the French-
Algerian War through employing that era’s language and tropes. In
particular, there was Sartre’s reevocation of racism as a set of practices and
a way of thinking that establishes the “subhuman” as a category of exclusion
and a justification for exploitation.
Thus, when he protested an April 1972 police raid on an overcrowded
building in Paris’s nineteenth arrondissement during which the tenants were
evicted, Sartre emphasized the objectively racist character of the system of
laws and the bureaucracy governing the lodging of immigrants.29 Effectively,
uninhabitable conditions were inextricably related to racism, on his view,
especially since, as he pointed out on another occasion, there were hundreds
of thousands of empty apartments in Paris. Minute, on the other hand,
dipped into the old repository of colonialist fears of native unhealthiness,
dirtiness, laziness, and disease — and the best means of managing or
 The Persistence of Colonialism 85

containing them. If North Africans lived in bidonvilles, this logic went, it

must be because they were comfortable living there, or because this was how
their “nature” had fashioned them to live. The solution, then, was not to
rearrange their social environment—which could have no effect, and which
they did not want in any case — but rather simply to get rid of them:
“Scram!”30
This resurgence of colonialism, decolonization, and its discursive leitmo-
tifs and arguments in the public domain correspond to what political
scientist Catherine Wihtol de Wenden has called the emergence of immigra-
tion as a “total social phenomenon” from 1968 to 1972. After having
encouraged clandestine immigration in the 1960s, the French government
found itself faced with a population that could no longer be considered
temporary—and, hence, the recognition that immigration was related to or
even causing structural changes in the economy as well as the social fabric.
As the political stakes became clearer, and as gauchistes tried to organize
immigrants, thus aiding the “awakening of a collective consciousness”
among them in this period as Wihtol de Wenden describes,31 parties on
both the Left and Right began rethinking and relegislating immigration.
While parties on the Right held fast to increasingly restrictive policies based
on the assumption that non-European populations were unassimilable,
beginning in 1972, the quickly growing Parti Socialiste (PS) began to
develop a discourse on immigration that proclaimed a “right to difference”
and a “new citizenship.”32 The question on the Left over the course of the
decade was, on the one hand, whether this declaration of respect for differ-
ence would be enfolded into a politics of identity that positively valued the
contributions of different cultures to democratic deliberation; or, on the
other hand, whether “respect” for difference would ultimately entangle the
Left in a perhaps Quixotic quest for a new form of universalism that could
somehow be more broadly inclusive than the old universalism of the colonial
mission civilisatrice.

“Internal” Colonialism: Collective Identity

and Regionalist Movements
Debates on racism and immigration were not the only ones in which colo-
nialism and decolonization figured prominently in the early 1970s, and
where calls for making concrete space for culturally distinct political claims
were advocated as a means of fostering more inclusive and genuinely delib-
erative democracy. In June 1974, linguist Robert Lafont penned an article
for Le Monde diplomatique, “Allies in the Cultural Combat against Colo-
nialism,” whose subtitle specified a somewhat surprising union: “Worker
Immigrants and Regionalist Movements in France.” Indeed, for many
86 Paige Arthur

gauchistes—such as La Cause du peuple editors Jean-Pierre Le Dantec and

Michel Le Bris—activism on behalf of these issues was already well estab-
lished. Lafont argued for both a practical and a conceptual link between
the two. “The analysis,” he wrote, “of colonial or semi-colonial situations on
the territory of the metropole has been developed. It forms the basis for a
new struggle in which the cultural argument plays a determining role.”33
Lafont was one of the major left-wing French theorists of regionalism.
His 1967 book La Révolution régionaliste popularized the concept of
“internal colonialism” for the broader French public, and his 1971 book
Décoloniser en France: Les régions face à l’Europe was an explicitly polit-
ical treatise in which he argued that “regional decolonization is an important
form of the global struggle against imperialism.” 34 Lafont’s work was
symbolic of an important political trend: the shift of regionalist movements
from their traditional political home on the Right to one on the Left, begin-
ning in the early 1960s. 35 As the publication date of the first book
demonstrates, the attraction of regionalist movements predated the events of
1968. Indeed, Lafont cited a rather different motive than young gauchiste
activism for the resurgence of political contestation over regional cultures
and autonomy: the French-Algerian War. Arguing that “the romantic oppo-
sition to national evolution” was no longer a viable political option for
regionalists, and that they must instead “insert themselves into the center of
French life,” Lafont made the case that the revelation of Algérie française as
a fiction forced people to start “rethinking France.”
Echoing Lafont’s writings, the Gauche Proletarienne gave regionalism
significant coverage in La Cause du peuple— not least of all because its
editors were involved in regionalist movements, but also because regionalism
of Lafont’s variety represented antistatist claims for broad access to and
exercise of democracy. Both Le Dantec and Le Bris wrote books about
regionalist movements, the latter writing a seminal work on the famed
Larzac uprising, which spanned the decade and which launched the career of
“alter-globalization” activist José Bové.36 Le Bris’s and Le Dantec’s works
were published in a Gallimard series called La France Sauvage (Savage
France), which was under Sartre’s directorship.37
Though Sartre’s intervention in debates on regionalist claims for cultural
autonomy date to the era of his involvement with the Gauche Proletari-
enne, his interest in them does not appear to be a direct consequence of that
involvement. Rather, as his remarks in the preface to a 1971 book edited by
Gisèle Halimi, Le procès de Burgos, suggest, there were strong conceptual
and political continuities—in his mind—between regionalist movements
and national liberation movements he had supported so strongly in the
past.38 The occasion for the text was the December 1970 trial in the Spanish
town of Burgos of sixteen members of the Basque nationalist movement in
 The Persistence of Colonialism 87

Spain, Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA). The trial was a major international

news story, and Halimi, a lawyer who had gained fame for anticolonialist
activity during the French-Algerian War, went as an observer. It was in this
preface that Sartre first outlined his views on the legitimacy of ethnically
based claims for autonomy and even independence in Europe, as well as the
structural parallels between European regionalist movements and non-Euro-
pean national independence movements.
Sartre began his essay by arguing that decolonization was one of the
primary spurs to nationalist movements within European countries.39 Like
Lafont, Sartre noted the possibility for an awakening of consciousness
among young men from Brittany sent to fight in Algeria—against, that is, a
movement for national independence—only to see that movement succeed.
Sartre then shifted quickly to an explanation of events that relied heavily on
his own conceptual vocabulary, and in particular the term that played a key
role in his work on Flaubert: the “singular universal.” Basque nationalism
was, on this argument, a collective form of universalizing the singular.
Indeed, the whole of the preface was geared toward explaining how a collec-
tivity might be understood as a singular universal:

I want to attempt here to oppose the abstract universality of bourgeois

humanism to the singular universality of the Basque people, to show what
circumstances have led it by an ineluctable dialectic to produce a revolutionary
movement, and what theoretical consequences one might reasonably pull from
the current situation—that is, what profound mutation that decentralization
might bring today to a centralizing socialism.40

In making his case, Sartre privileged two arguments, both of which demon-
strated strong continuities with a number of earlier writings, in particular
“Black Orpheus.” The first was that the basis for Basque unity and thus the
proof of the legitimacy of Basque claims to independence was the historical
and linguistic distinctness of the Basque language, Euzkara. The second was
that group identity was reinforced through a common struggle against colo-
nialism. The two claims were interrelated, both for Sartre and for ETA, since
they took the suppression of the Basque language as the primary mode of
Spanish domination and as a sign of its intent to commit “cultural genocide.”
Hence, and strongly echoing “Black Orpheus,” Sartre held that “to speak his
own language is, for a colonized person, already a revolutionary act.”41
Sartre folded this focus on language as the carrier of the “Basque person-
ality” into his discussion of the singular universal. Though his evocation of
a “Basque personality” came perilously close to suggesting the existence of
timeless group characteristics, Sartre instead wrote of the practice of being
Basque, of “making oneself Basque” through the everyday act of speaking
88 Paige Arthur

Euzkara. Being Basque and speaking the Basque language coincided “not
only because he [the speaker] recoups a past that belongs only to him, but
especially because he addresses himself, even when alone, to a community of
those who speak Basque.”42 It was through this practice of speaking—and
speaking to one another—that Basque people might come to discern what
made their culture “singular,” and thus combat the homogenizing and falsely
universalizing force of Spanish centralization which, especially under
Franco, had targeted Euzkara for extinction. Sartre did not say why he priv-
ileged linguistic practice over other practices in the Basque struggle— it
could have been because the fight to speak the Basque language was already
given to Sartre as the central problem. Nonetheless, it was the specificity of
the language that, for him, marked the possibility for Basque people to
access their history and culture as something “concrete,” thus taking a step
on the road toward discovering, “not man in general, but man as Basque.”43
Once this step was taken, the nonalienated political claims of free, individual
Basques might come also to express universal aims. That is, it was only
through passage of the concrete singularity of one’s own culture that one
could hope to fully recognize not only one’s own freedom but also that of
other peoples.
Although Sartre’s argument concerning language reaffirmed some of the
key ideas of “Black Orpheus,” his claims about collective identity appear to
have directly contradicted a text also from that earlier period, Antisemite
and Jew. Whereas in that essay Sartre had bracketed (or, some would argue,
emptied) the contents of Jewishness for Jews themselves by averring that it is
the antisemite who creates the Jew, here Sartre invoked a minority popula-
tion’s singular “character” and “reality”— and not others’ perceptions of
it—as the foundation for identity. He even made an appeal to stable somatic
markers over time as a structuring force. Indeed, there are—paradoxically—
commonalities not only between the Basque of Sartre’s Burgos essay and the
Jew of Antisemite and Jew as oppressed minorities, but also between the
Basque and the antisemite: each shares an attachment to her native soil, for
example, and prioritizes the given values of community over the self-created
values of the individual. In many ways, then, there was something rather
arbitrary about the line that Sartre and others (Le Dantec and Le Bris, specif-
ically) wished to draw between the reactionary and the revolutionary when
it came to regionalist movements. As Pierre Bourdieu would point out just a
few years later, as struggles for recognition, regionalist movements should be
classed as attempts to impose a legitimate scheme of “vision and di-vision”
on the social world, and as attempts to define the “law” governing that
scheme in order to justify the domination of one group by another.44 A
regionalist movement’s attempt to gain recognition as a distinct nationality
may be as much a mode of domination as a centralizing state’s denial of such
 The Persistence of Colonialism 89

nationality is. This means that in terms of the desired goal — unification
and autonomy/independence—there could be no easy distinction between,
say, Breton regionalism and German nationalism.
Such a homology between “revolutionary” regionalism and “reactionary”
nationalism cannot have been lost on Sartre and others, and one might
surmise that the key to maintaining this tenuous distinction lay in situating
a particular struggle in a colonialist paradigm. Reading the Burgos preface
in the context of Sartre’s 1964 “Rome Lecture” on ethics, which discussed at
length the normative reasoning behind revolutionary action, one could plau-
sibly argue that if the imposition of a particular set of social boundaries was
unjust—if it was a “colonial” order with all of its attendant economic and
social violence—one could find therein a clear cut case of a “least favored”
people that would then require intellectuals’ support. Moreover, in the
gauchiste account of anticolonial struggles, the least favored held a privi-
leged position as the suppliers of democratic innovation.
The key here is that nationalist projects that do not seek to dominate other
nationalities—that seek democratic decentralization rather than undemoc-
ratic centralization—are the ones that may be legitimately supported. An
anticolonialist or regionalist movement that tries to impose its own order as a
matter of domination could not be considered a liberation movement. Thus,
the most important, and classically Sartrean argument made in favor of
regionalist movements was that their left-wing emanations claimed to repre-
sent the expansion of human freedom. In this case, Sartre’s decision to use
the Basque nationalist movement as his public entry into debates on region-
alism was well taken since, at the time, the Basques were fighting against a
reactionary dictatorship. But freedom figured as an important normative aim
of political action for the gauchistes as well. In Les fous du Larzac, Le Bris
stressed freedom as a goal. He argued, in a strongly Sartrean vein, that the
famed mid-1970s movement of a group of the 103 farmers who defied the
French government’s attempt to expand a military base onto their land was
guided necessarily by freedom—by the freedom of each of its members and
by the recognition of freedom in others. This stress on freedom formed the
cornerstone of Le Bris’s concluding remarks in the book “A New Discourse
on ‘Revolt-Freedom,’ ” in which he argued that the 103 had discovered and
put into action gauchiste aims better than the gauchistes themselves.45
Le Bris’s latter point is an important one—for regionalism, gauchisme,
and the colonial paradigm. The Larzac revolt, along with the 1973 workers’
takeover and self-management (or autogestion) of the Lip watch factory,
were the signal events marking the fact that, for Le Bris, “Marxism is at an
end, and organized gauchisme is moribund.”46 This conclusion that gauchiste
groups such as the Gauche Prolétarienne were not, in fact, driving the most
innovative and significant popular movements of the early to mid-1970s
90 Paige Arthur

forced a coming to terms with all of the old assumptions, chief among them
the utility of the radical critique of colonialism for left-wing politics. Le
Dantec, in his 1974 book Bretagne: Re-naissance d’un people, cautioned
those on the Left that uncritical overuse may easily lead to misuse. Brittany,
after all, was not Algeria. Gauchistes—and he criticized them explicitly in the
book—should not “imagine themselves in Algeria, Vietnam, or Martinique
and reinsert themselves into a model so classical as the struggle for national
independence. These ‘solutions’ have the merit of facility; unfortunately, they
do not respond in the least to the questions of a real movement.”47

The New/Old Universalism of the Left

The cautionary note Le Dantec sounded concerning intellectuals’ application
of the radical critique of colonialism to situations not classically colonial
was, moreover, general. By the mid-1970s, left-wing French intellectuals
began a sweeping reconsideration of the meaning of colonialism and the
process of decolonization — along with France’s rightful role in them.
Radical gauchiste movements were confronted with the lack of success of
their own tactics for fomenting revolution and seizing state power through
extraelectoral and extralegal means. At the same time, the arrival on the
political scene of a consolidated and fortified Socialist Party (PS) in 1972
suddenly offered a new political option for gauchistes and others on the
noncommunist Left who had lost enthusiasm for—and were often openly
hostile to — the Communist Party. The PS quickly made the issues of the
immigrant worker and the decentralization of power to regions part of
their political platform, coopting two of the gauchistes’ most significant
issues.48 This support for decentralization had immediate effects, helping the
PS to extend its support in Brittany in the 1973 elections.49 As for Larzac, it
was only in 1981, with the accession to power of Socialist president François
Mitterrand, that plans for the Larzac military base’s expansion were
canceled—in fulfillment of one of his campaign promises.50 But this coop-
tation also entailed a substantial modification in the contents of political
claims about identity — in effect, a shift away from a defense of cultural
particularity and toward a “universal” conception of French identity that
could encompass all citizens.
This shift was closely related to the late-1970s critique of Third Worldism
on humanitarian grounds, which was spearheaded by Socialist intellectuals.
The mistrust of the state as necessarily repressive—a suspicion that grew out
of left-wing analyses of the Soviet Union under Stalin, of which Sartre’s Cri-
tique of Dialectical Reason was among the earliest and best known in
France—blossomed during the 1970s into broad support on the Left to rec-
oncile socialism with the basic liberties guaranteed in Western democracies.
 The Persistence of Colonialism 91

“Totalitarianism” of both the conservative authoritarian and Marxist guises

was under the gun. This led to a taking stock of formerly held positions in
favor of movements at one time or another deemed “progressive”—in
Algeria, Cuba, Zaïre, Vietnam, and, later, Cambodia—whose outcome had
been states that denied such basic freedoms. On this interpretation, the rad-
ical critique of colonialism, which had centered on a denunciation of the false
premises of the mission civilisatrice, had acted as a cover and as a legiti-
mating rhetoric for regimes and political movements that simply were not lib-
erationist. Therefore, the critique itself needed to be reevaluated—and
perhaps abandoned.51
This new debate covered some very old issues, and it marked the return of
the Left to its earlier universalist position of the days of the colonial mission
civilisatrice—albeit in a far less aggressive form than it took in the nine-
teenth and early twentieth centuries. Though everyone agreed emphatically
that colonialism was an evil that was right to challenge, there was now
marked disagreement concerning whether granting independence was the
best way to end that evil. Taking the place of colonial regimes, many argued,
now were simply “barbaric” regimes. On this standard, the acceptability of
any particular system of governance became the guaranteeing of human
rights, which became the mark of “civilization.” Arguments for collective or
“cultural” rights—so instrumental to the era of decolonization, and subse-
quently to the defenses of the worker immigrant and regionalism in
France—were swept into the background as a result.
Oddly, this reevaluation of the radical critique of colonialism connected
with the views expressed in the pages of Minute on the “barbarity” of non-
European cultures in general. Indeed, one effect was to leave Socialists in a
profound bind vis-à-vis those in France who were excluded from the domi-
nant culture, and thus found it difficult to fully participate in political, social,
and economic life: non-European immigrants and regional minorities. By
gaining authority among members of the PS, human rights discourse would
discourage thinking about the structural conditions of race or culture-based
oppression on the grounds that remedies for such oppression would be avail-
able simply through guaranteeing individual rights. That is, as long as there
were formal political assurances that everyone could become “French”—
assurances that everyone could participate in the dominant culture — the
problems associated with integration of minorities would disappear. While
this belief may have held true for some immigrants and regional minorities,
it has not proven true for everyone, particularly for a large portion of
France’s citizens of North African and West African descent.
Another effect of this reevaluation of the radical critique of colonialism
was, I have suggested in my opening anecdote, on the level of a summary
judgment of Sartre and others who still held fast to its now-suspect mode
92 Paige Arthur

of analysis. Liberation and the self-determination of peoples could not be

expected to go hand in hand. It is perhaps for this reason that Sartre’s
attempt to apply his concept of the “singular universal”— which was
invented to describe how an individual could be an incarnation of the
world—to collectivities such as the Basques raised more questions than it
answered. As we have seen, his arguments in the preface to the Procès de
Burgos were unclear: did Basques together represent a collective “person,”
which could be described as a singular universal, or was each individual
Basque, as Basque, a singular universal whose universality was expressed in
his free choice and exercise of the practices of his culture, such as speaking
his own language? Indeed, were the rights of peoples and the rights of man
incompatible? Back in 1953, Sartre did not think so; he argued for the recog-
nition of both. In his interview from that year to La République Algérienne,
he declared, “Neither the ‘right of peoples to decide their own fate’ nor the
‘rights of man’ formulated in 1789 have been recognized for the colonized by
the colonizers. Nowhere is the exploitation of man by man more apparent;
the colonizers can only justify themselves—even in their own eyes—by a
racism that will finish by infecting the ‘metropole’ itself.”52
By the mid-1970s, as Sartre’s interventions in favor of immigrants and
regional movements indicate, he had not moved appreciably away from this
position. The French political context in which he took this position had,
however, changed markedly. Against Sartre’s argument that living fully
one’s own cultural identity was a basic freedom that ought to be defended,
culture-based arguments for rights were increasingly treated as incompat-
ible with the universalist-based arguments once more in vogue on the Left.
Moreover, Sartre’s insistence that “race” and other forms of identity be
taken seriously as factors in systemic oppression that could not easily be
solved through political means—a key claim of the radical critique of colo-
nialism—was rejected in favor of appeals to a “new citizenship” based on
human rights. Sartre’s adaptation of the radical critique of colonialism to
new social struggles in the early 1970s may not have always been
convincing or unproblematic, yet it demonstrated a concern with the limits
of the purely formal or human rights approach that the Socialists would
once again champion.
The legacy of this shift is now only too apparent. Reconciling minority
cultures remains one of the French republic’s great challenges, and racism
one of its growing threats. With recognition of the policies of integration
and assimilation as failures, Sartre’s engagements with antiracist activism
and regionalist movements in the early 1970s may offer some interesting
insights for thinking through new relationships between identity and democ-
racy in the age of globalization.
 The Persistence of Colonialism 93

Notes
1. N.a., “Poursuivi par huit journalistes de Minute, M. Jean-Paul Sartre est
condamné à 400 francs d’amende,” Le Monde, November 8, 1973. See also
Simone de Beauvoir’s account in Adieux: A Farewell to Sartre, trans. Patrick
O’Brian (New York: Pantheon, 1984), 56–58. Minute was among the most
important organs of the extreme right, as it was under the direction of the
founding members of the Front National. Its tabloid style attracted a broader
reader base than the other well-known right-wing publication Rivarol.
2. Francis Cornu, “Minute poursuit M. Jean-Paul Sartre en correctionelle: L’ac-
cusateur accusé,” Le Monde, October 10, 1973.
3. N.a., “Poursuivi par huit journalistes de Minute.”
4. N.a., “Sartre malade? Ce serait la raison de son étrange silence,” Minute 598,
September 26–October 2, 1973, 3.
5. N.a., “En prison Sartre!” Minute 479, June 16–22, 1971, 1, 6–9.
6. In fact, Sartre was charged shortly after the appearance of Minute’s accusa-
tions, which led Contat and Rybalka to imply a link between the two events.
Substantiating such a link is, however, very difficult. See Michael Contat and
Michel Rybalka, eds., The Writings of Jean-Paul Sartre, vol. 1, A Bibliograph-
ical Life, trans. Richard C. McCleary (Evanstan, Ill.: Northwestern University
Press, 1974), 579.
7. Cornu, “L’accusateur accusé.”
8. Michel Wieviorka et al., La France raciste (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1992), 25.
9. Catherine Lloyd, Discourses of Antiracism in France (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate,
1998), 169–70.
10. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Le Nouveau racisme,” Le Nouvel Observateur, December
18–22, 1972.
11. For a classic historiographical work using the model of internal colonialism, see
Michael Hechter, Internal Colonialism: The Celtic Fringe in British National
Development (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975), esp. chap. 2.
12. The number of Algerians in France doubled between 1958 and 1968; by 1972,
Algerians had overtaken the Portuguese, Spanish, and Italians as the largest
immigrant population, at 20 percent of all immigrants. Vincent Viet, La
France immigré: Construction d’une politique, 1914–1997 (Paris: Fayard,
1998), 262, 265.
13. “Algérie ça suffit! Ils nous chassent . . . chassons les!” Minute 470, April 14–20,
1971, 1 (cover line); see in the same issue, François Brigneau, “Algérie ça
suffit!” 11.
14. J.-P. Mefret,“Les Algériens chez nous,” Minute 458, January 21–27, 1971, 12–13.
15. Alain Gillette and Abdelmalek Sayad, L’immigration algérienne en France
(Paris: Editions Entente, 1976), 97.
16. See the edition, Minute 595, September 5–11, 1973, in which the cover lines
read, “Arretez l’invasion algérienne, maintenant la cote d’alerte est dépassée”
and “Ceux qui vont nous amener la guerre raciale.”
17. See “L’autre guerre qui commence: Le chantage arabe au pétrole,” Minute 602,
October 24–30, 1973, 1; and “La riposte aux arabes: Oui, elle est possible! Ils
veulent nous mettre à genoux avec le pétrole,” Minute 608, December 5–11,
1973, 1.
18. Gérard Noiriel, The French Melting Pot: Immigration, Citizenship, and
National Identity, trans. Geoffroy de Laforcade (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 1996), 24.
94 Paige Arthur
19. See, among many others, n.a., “La guerre au racisme,” La Cause du peuple 6,
June 28, 1971, 16; and n.a., “Frapper le criminel raciste,” La Cause du peuple
9, September 23, 1971, 14.
20. Union générale des travailleurs sénégalais en France, Livre des travailleurs
africains en France (Paris: Maspero, 1970).
21. Reprinted as Jean-Paul Sartre, “Le Tiers Monde commence en banlieue,” Situa-
tions VIII (Paris: Gallimard, 1972).
22. Roland Castro, Leiris, and Genet were all arrested when they occupied the
offices of the French employers’ organization as part of their protest. Castro
was later prosecuted, and both Sartre and Genet testified at his trial. See “De
la mort de cinq Maliens à l’occupation du CNPF: Une peine de prison ferme
est requise contre un architecte inculpé de violences et rébellion,” Le Monde,
February 25, 1970; see also Beauvoir, Adieux, 4, 26.
23. Indeed, in their published conversations, Sartre, Pierre Victor (Benny Lévy),
and Philippe Gavi talked of the difficulties of combating racism among French
workers. Gavi pressed Victor on what role marginal politics (homosexual
rights, immigrant rights, feminism) played in the Maoist conception of revolu-
tion, asking, “What kind of society do you want? A society in which those
who control production continue to think ‘filthy nigger’ or ‘fairy’ does not
interest me. I am not fighting for that.” Philippe Gavi, Jean-Paul Sartre, Pierre
Victor, On a raison de se révolter (Paris: Gallimard, 1974), 111.
24. Sartre, “Le Nouveau Racisme.”
25. Their defense was mounted in the editorial “A ceux qui parlent de racisme,”
Minute 595, September 5–11, 1973, 2.
26. N.a., “Ce qui, un jour, amènera l’explosion: Ces casbahs au coeur de nos
villes,” Minute 595, September 5–11, 1973, 6–7.
27. See n.a., “On ne peut plus supporter cette invasion,” 3–5; J.-P. M.“ ‘Carta
Toubib Choléra,’ ” 5; and n.a., “Dans le medina de la Goutte d’Or, le FNL [sic]
est encore le patron,” 6; in Minute 595, September 5–11, 1973.
28. See Maxim Silverman, Deconstructing the Nation: Immigration, Racism and
Citizenship in Modern France (London: Routledge, 1992), 52.
29. See Mauriac, Et comme l’espérance est violente, 362; Contat and Rybalka,
The Writings of Jean-Paul Sartre, vol. 1, 590; and Beauvoir, Adieux, 30.
30. “La France sans algériens: Chiche! En attendant, ils continuent à arriver à
pleins bateaux” [cover line], Minute 598, September 26–October 2, 1973, 1.
31. Catherine Wihtol de Wenden, Les immigrés et la politique (Paris: Presses de la
fondation nationale des sciences politiques, 1988), 147.
32. D. S. Bell and Byron Criddle, The French Socialist Party: The Emergence of a
Party of Government, second ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988), 172.
33. Robert Lafont, “Alliés dans un combat culturel contre le colonialisme
intérieur,” Le Monde diplomatique (June 1975).
34. Robert Lafont, Décoloniser en France: Les régions face à l’Europe (Paris:
Gallimard, 1971), 287.
35. For a brief history of this shift, see Maryon McDonald, “We Are Not
French!”: Language, Culture, and Identity in Brittany (London: Routledge,
1989), esp. chap. 5.
36. See Herman Lebovics, Bringing the Empire Back Home: France in the Age of
Globalism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004).
37. The idea for the series was Le Bris and Le Dantec’s. See Beauvoir, Adieux,
67–68, 96.
38. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Préface,” in Gisèle Halimi, Le procès de Burgos (Paris: Galli-
mard, 1971), vii–xxx. Sartre’s preface was also excerpted in Le Nouvel
Observateur, May 24–30, 1971.
 The Persistence of Colonialism 95

39. Marianne Heiberg confirms that Sartre’s interpretation as applied to ETA was
well founded. Although only a handful of ETA’s leaders were Marxist, she
writes that “one factor above all the others was instrumental in pushing ETA
to the extreme Left—the model of the revolutionary struggle of national liber-
ation as exemplified by Cuba, Algeria and Vietnam.” Marianne Heiberg, The
Making of the Basque Nation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989),
111.
40. Sartre, “Préface,” in Halimi, Le procès de Burgos, xi.
41. Ibid., xix.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid., xx.
44. Pierre Bourdieu, “Identity and Representation: Elements for a Critical Reflec-
tion on the Idea of Region,” in Language and Symbolic Power, trans. Matthew
Adamson (Cambridge: Polity, 1991). Bourdieu’s goal was to caution sociolo-
gists against taking too seriously the representations made by regionalist
movements themselves.
45. See Michel Le Bris, Les fous du Larzac (Paris: Les Presses d’aujourd’hui,
1975).
46. Ibid., 359.
47. Jean-Pierre Le Dantec, Bretagne: Re-naissance d’un peuple (Paris: Gallimard,
1974), 294.
48. See the party platform written by PS secretary Pierre Joxe: “The Socialist Party
proposes to effect a profound decentralization at the level of communes,
departments, and regions,” and “Decent living conditions will be assured for
immigrant workers; parity in wages and rights between foreign workers and
French workers will be established” as part of a “struggle against all forms of
discrimination.” Pierre Joxe, Parti Socialiste (Paris: Epi Editeurs, 1973), 79, 85.
49. Yves Rocaute, Le Parti Socialiste (Paris: Editions Bruno Huisman, 1983), 88.
50. Mitterrand had a troubled history with the Larzac movement—he was
roughed up by gauchiste activists when he showed up in 1974 to lend support
to the cause. See Brown, Socialism of a Different Kind, 114.
51. For more on this point, see Susan Paige Arthur, “Decolonization on Trial,
1970–1980,” in Unfinished Projects: Decolonization and the Philosophy of
Jean-Paul Sartre (PhD dissertation, University of California, Berkeley, 2004).
52. Interview with Jean-Paul Sartre, “Jean-Paul Sartre: ‘Le problème colonial et
celui de la démocratie sociale en France sont indissolublement liées,’ ” La
République algérienne, January 16, 1953, 1.
This page intentionally left blank.
 Part II

Sartre and
Antiracist Theory
This page intentionally left blank.
 Chapter 4

Race
From Philosophy to History
Christian Delacampagne

“Race after Sartre”: The subject matter of the present book illustrates, inter-
estingly, cultural differences underlying the way we write the genealogy of
concepts in France and the United States, and, more generally, the way we
write or read texts, whatever texts they are. As I have spent part of my
academic life traveling between France (where I studied philosophy during
the 1970s and later taught in various institutions) and the United States
(where I used to teach between 1998 and 2006, mostly at Johns Hopkins
University), I would like, at the beginning of this chapter, to expand a little
more on this particular, often misunderstood, and wrongly underestimated
gap between our two cultures.
For the majority of American people, “race” refers to a familiar sociolog-
ical reality: American citizens come or their ancestors came (out of their
free will or not, that is another issue) from all over the world. This is why
they actually may be white, or Hispanic, or Native American, or African
American, or Asian American, or whatever categories the latest United States
census designates. And such diversity, far from being an unpleasant surprise,
is generally accepted by all—everybody being perfectly aware of how old
and complicated the history of immigration in the United States has been.
Accordingly, the word “race” may be freely used as a kind of “administra-
tive” category (including on many U.S. official documents) without any
feeling of insult, shame, or guilt.
On the other hand, for French people or, to be more precise, for educated
French people, nature may allow the existence of races among dogs, cats, or
cows, but the concept of a racial group within the “human race” is nothing
but a pure fantasy since all human beings proceed from the same genetic
stock and share the same genes. Of course, men and women may occasion-
ally differ by the color of their skin; but this difference in color does not
correspond to a difference in “race” since it does not entail, by itself, any

99
100 Christian Delacampagne

hereditary mental or psychological difference. In addition to this purely

scientific consideration, using the word “race” in colloquial French may
sound shocking or, at least, inappropriate, because this word sadly reminds
every educated French citizen of the racial policies that were advocated by
Fascist groups in France and the rest of Europe during the 1930s, and
actively put into practice by the Vichy government in German-occupied
France between 1940 and 1944. Taken together, those two reasons explain
why, in practice, the word “race,” in the sense of subgroups within the
“human race,” amounts to a forbidden word in contemporary France.
Let me illustrate that point by a quick example: An African American
student who wanted to complain about discrimination on his/her U.S.
campus would probably say: “I am discriminated against because of my
race,” while a black French student, if he/she was in the same unpleasant
situation on a French campus, would normally say: “I am discriminated
against because of the color of my skin.” Some readers may say that this is
not a big deal, indeed! And, nevertheless, the gap such a small difference
makes on a scholarly level can be spectacular.
Within the American higher education system, for instance, the concept of
“race studies” has referred, for decades now, to a well-defined field of inves-
tigation, whose academic legitimacy no longer needs to be demonstrated: the
study of interactions between social groups that, for historical reasons,
wrongly view each other as biological groups (i.e., as “races”). For French
scholars, on the other hand, there are no racial groups since racial groups are
only social ones. For that reason, the study of racism (i.e., of the hatred that
certain social groups can feel for other social groups, not because of what
the latter do but because of who they are, either by birth or by collective
choice) enjoys a different status. It still constitutes a field of investigation, of
course. But this field has no specific autonomy. It simply finds its place
within historical studies in the broad sense of the term, and more specifically
within cultural history, or within that subdiscipline that was first called, by
Philippe Ariès and other French historians in the 1960s, “histoire des mental-
ités” (history of mentalities, i.e., systems of thought).
And that is not all. While the question of knowing how the concept of
“race” has evolved (since Jean-Paul Sartre, or since the 1900s, or since 1850)
is both understandable and legitimate for an American researcher, it can only
appear incongruous to a French scholar. Indeed, for this latter scholar, the
concept of “race” cannot have evolved, since it has definitively been disqual-
ified as an objective notion some sixty years ago, something that happened
largely under the influence of philosophers like Sartre himself! This is why
the present book, if it happens to be translated into French, will have to bear
a new, different title: “La Race après Sartre” would not be, for a French audi-
ence, an understandable phrase.
 Race 101

By chance, if we know the existence of such risks of misunderstanding

between our two cultures, we can find a way of giving, in French, a rational
meaning to the issue of “race after Sartre.” It would then consist (and this is
what I will undertake in this chapter) in studying how our representations of
race have evolved—in other words, in asking to what extent our approach
to racism and antisemitism has changed since Sartre published his land-
mark book Réflexions sur la question juive (Antisemite and Jew) in 1946.
Let me recall, to start with, that Sartre was not the first philosopher who
attempted to reflect on racism in general. The absurdity and the dangers of
racism have been condemned—at the same time as the superiority of toler-
ance has been praised—by many European intellectuals over the past five
hundred years. This started, in fact, with Bartolomé de Las Casas and Michel
de Montaigne, two sixteenth-century authors who wrote in defense of Native
American populations in the aftermath of the discovery of the New World.
And Sartre was not even the first one who attempted to reflect on this
particular form of racism we have come to call antisemitism. Without forget-
ting that Karl Jaspers’s masterpiece on The Question of German Guilt came
out the same year as Sartre’s work, it is clear that the first members of the
Frankfurt School, who were forced into exile because of the nomination of
Adolf Hitler as Chancellor of the Reich (1933), had many occasions to
ponder the nature of antisemitism. In fact, Max Horkheimer and Theodor
W. Adorno dealt with this immense and tragic issue in the last part of their
major opus Dialectic of Enlightenment, which was published in 1947
although the manuscript was completed as early as 1944.
Yet Sartre (and this is why he remains so important for me and, I hope,
for my readers) was the first one who initiated a systematic and rational
approach to the irrational conception of a “Jewish race.” Furthermore, he
was the first one to offer, with so much force and clarity, a complex series of
theoretical statements on antisemitism that not only had deep, widespread
influence both in Europe and the United States, but that still remain—as we
shall see—valid today. As for me, every time I am interrogated about those
statements, I answer that the most important ones amount to four, that
may be summed up in the following way:

(1) “Race” (reference to human sub-groups) is a social construct, not a

biological datum.
(2) Although “race” has no denotation in the real world, this fact does not
prevent racism from being a form of hatred that is felt and expressed by
real social groups. In fact, racism starts as soon as somebody starts
believing in the objective reality of “human races” (while antisemitism,
accordingly, begins whenever somebody starts believing into the reality
of a “Jewish race”).
102 Christian Delacampagne

(3) This is why racism (or antisemitism) is not an opinion among others. In
fact, it is not an opinion at all. It is a global attitude possessing its own
internal coherence, a way of perceiving the world as such, an “ideology”
in the Marxist sense of the word, a secular religion that is based exclu-
sively on forgeries, lies, and errors. For that reason, it is not amenable to
rational disputation—which entails, if we really want to make it disap-
pear, psychoanalysis, education, and preventive action on a social level
that will have to be complemented by faster and more effective means,
such as legal repression.
(4) Finally, the fight against racism must be a challenge for any civic commu-
nity as a whole, and not only for the unfortunate victims of racial
hatred.

Although most reasonable people agree, today, with such assumptions

(with a significant exception regarding the third thesis, which is still rejected
by most in the United States who think that freedom of speech should not be
restricted), we simultaneously have to acknowledge that there were also
some blinders in Sartre’s analysis. No surprise: Those blinders were
connected to ways of thinking that were shared by lots of people in his
generation—a generation that grew up in the atmosphere saturated with
racism which bathed the whole of European culture in the 1920s and the
1930s. And we also have to recognize that there were some serious limita-
tions (not to say deficiencies) in his knowledge of the history of racism,
Judaism, and antisemitism.
In order to understand what I mean by “ways of thinking that were shared
by lots of people in his generation,” it will be sufficient to go back to the first
pages of Réflexions sur la question juive. The word “race,” for instance,
appears for the first time on page 24 (in the French version): “Here is a fish-
monger who, in 1942, annoyed by the competition between two Jewish fish-
mongers who were hiding their race, one day took a pen in order to denounce
them.”1 Nobody, nowadays, would dare write such a sentence. One would
resort to a periphrasis (“hiding the fact that they were Jewish”) or a more
appropriate formula (“were hiding their Jewishness”). But one would cer-
tainly not write a sentence insinuating the existence of a “Jewish race” so nat-
urally and objectively that one might be tempted to want to “hide” it.
The oddest thing is, as everyone knows, that Sartre devoted most of his
book to demonstrating that a Jewish race simply did not exist. Then, why
did he use here the word “race”? Probably because of sloppiness, and
because everyone around him, in 1946, used it in the same way. The devel-
opments that made the expression “Jewish race” disappear had not yet
occurred. One can and should deplore this. But one would be mistaken to
blame it on Sartre, as if he were the only one or the last one to express it in
 Race 103

such a controversial way. After all, the leftist daily newspaper El País and
most Spanish media still called Albert Cohen “un escritor de raza ebrea” (“a
writer of Hebraic race”) during the 1990s; and this expression, as well as the
expressions “raza negra” (referring to blacks) and “raza gitana” (referring
to the Gypsies) are still commonly heard in colloquial Spanish.
There are however, in Sartre’s book, more disturbing passages than the
one I just quoted. Let’s go back a few pages and let’s reread the third para-
graph of the text. “The Jew that the antisemite wants to reach,” Sartre
writes, “is not a schematic being, defined only through his position as in
administrative law; through his position or through his actions as within the
Code. He’s a Jew, a son of Jews, recognizable through his physical features,
his hair color, his clothes and perhaps, as they say, his character.”2 This
passage read in its context is honorable: the following sentence, destined to
conclude an analysis according to which it is unacceptable to try to deny
any social group its rights, is a courageous statement according to which
“antisemitism does not enter into the category of thoughts protected by the
right of freedom of opinion.” However, Sartre does not hesitate to write that
a Jew can be recognized thanks to his physical features, his hair color, or his
clothes, which reveals in itself a regrettable lack of intellectual rigor. And,
as if this were not enough, he adds: “and, as they say, to his character.”
This “as they say” is a terrifying slip of the tongue. It means that Sartre,
since he quoted this cliché without condemning it, did not totally reject the
hypothesis according to which a Jewish “character”—that is to say, some
kind of Jewish race—might indeed exist. How come Sartre did not realize
that? Partly because he always wrote too quickly, never taking enough time
to give his own manuscripts enough critical attention. But also because, once
again, he did not manage to clearly break with some of the social prejudices
that were still dominant within educated circles in France in the immediate
aftermath of World War II (some prejudices which I remember fairly well,
since I was a child at the time).
Added to these weaknesses in the Sartrean analysis (there are others of the
same type, which fortunately are not very numerous, in the next pages),3 was
another type of shortcoming that should be linked, this time, to the insuffi-
cient knowledge that Sartre had of the history of racism, Judaism, and
antisemitism.
His lack of knowledge about Judaism, for instance, has been often and
justifiably denounced. Sartre himself later recognized that, in order to speak
about the Jews in 1946, he had simply evoked the image he had of his old
friend and comrade Raymond Aron, an eminent representative of what was
called in France “assimilated Judaism.” It is clear that before writing a book
about Judaism and antisemitism, he should have gone to the trouble of
getting informed in a much more serious and scientific manner.
104 Christian Delacampagne

Without wanting to exonerate him, I would like to recall nevertheless that

Sartre never wanted to be a university researcher (he did not even accept the
position at the prestigious Collège de France that was offered to him by the
Collège itself). He did not want to be bound by the rules of his profession
to minute verifications. He viewed himself as an independent writer, who
was freely elaborating philosophical essays that were intended to reach and
move a wide audience. I would also like to recall that, before the massive
return in France of French Jews from North Africa (which essentially took
place between 1956 and 1962, at the time Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia
became independent states), assimilated Judaism constituted the only ideo-
logical trend existing within the French Jewish community, a fact which
contributes to explain that the available studies about Jewish culture were
not very numerous yet. Lastly, as far as the history of antisemitism was
concerned, the shortcomings in the 1946 book were to a large extent due to
the fact that no Western scholar had started, before that date, to seriously
write this complex history.
There were a few authors who had, indeed, begun writing the history of
antisemitism before 1946 (in fact, they were three)—but they had done so
primarily out of a spirit of philosophical propaganda or religious anxiety,
rather than out of a strictly scientific interest. Let us start with L’An-
tisémitisme, son histoire et ses causes (Paris, 1894), a book by the
Dreyfusard polemist Bernard Lazare, an assimilated French Jew who wanted
to demonstrate that the very nature of the Jewish religion was the single
and direct cause of all the forms of hostility against the Jews through the
centuries. The brutal partiality of such a statement is so shocking that it
makes it impossible to discuss it as a serious historical enterprise. For similar
motives, the same thing might be said of Anatole Leroy-Beaulieu’s book on
Israël chez les nations (Paris, 1893). As for the third one, James Parkes’s
book on The Conflict of the Church and the Synagogue: A Study in the
Origins of Antisemitism (London: 1934), it is slightly more stimulating
than the previous two, but it is definitely not a great work of history.
For many reasons, therefore, most of them being largely obvious, the first
rigorous investigations into the social and cultural origins of antisemitism
did not start until the aftermath of World War II, when French historian
Jules Isaac (himself an assimilated Jew) published successively Jésus et Israël
(Paris: Fasquelle, 1946), Genèse de l’antisémitisme: essai historique (Paris:
Calmann-Lévy, 1956), L’Antisémitisme a-t-il des racines chrétiennes ? (Paris:
Fasquelle, 1960), and L’Enseignement du mépris: vérité historique et mythes
théologiques (Paris: Fasquelle, 1962). Almost simultaneously, Fadiey
Lovsky’s Antisémitisme et mystère d’Israël came out in 1955, and Marcel
Simon’s Verus Israël: étude sur les relations entre chrétiens et juifs dans
l’Empire romain (135–425) in 1964.4
 Race 105

These three authors (and especially Simon) made major contributions to

the issue of the historical origins of the hatred against the Jews. They were
the first ones who asked with clarity the appropriate question: To what
extent did nineteenth- and twentieth-century racial (i.e., pseudo-biological)
antisemitism take its roots from the Catholic Church’s anti-Judaism, espe-
cially in the polemical anti-Jewish writings of the Fathers of the Church
and the Christian theologians of the first centuries CE? Yet, they did not have
enough historical knowledge to answer that big question and were unable to
put some twenty centuries of European antisemitism into a global perspec-
tive. In addition to that, the historical knowledge they had was almost
always second-hand knowledge: none of them (except Simon, whose book
did not come out before 1964) had really worked on original archives or
unpublished documents.
In fact, the first two writers who really attempted to write a global history
of antisemitism, and who did so by conducting first-hand research, did it
shortly after — and not before — the almost simultaneous publication, in
1946, of Jésus et Israël and Réflexions sur la question juive. They were
Hannah Arendt, in the first part of her Origins of Totalitarianism (1951),
and Léon Poliakov, in the five volumes of his huge Histoire de l’an-
tisémitisme, of which the first came out in 1955 and the last in 1994.5 Both
of them had read Sartre’s Réflexions as soon as it had come out (we should
remember that Arendt greatly helped introduce French Existentialism into
the United States)—and, for them, the concepts of a “Jewish race,” as well as
of “human races” in general, were evidently stripped of any objective reality.
At the same time, they were serious scholars who wanted to be read by other
scholars: this is why their work no longer presented the same lapses as
Sartre’s had.
Arendt, a great political philosopher but not a professional historian,
made remarkable efforts in order to address, in the first part of her inquiry
into totalitarianism (“Part One: Antisemitism”), vast historical material.
Nevertheless, her undertaking was severely marred by the fact that she
decided (as many assimilated German Jews would have done at the time) to
disconnect nineteenth-century racial antisemitism from Christian medieval
anti-Judaism. Instead of following the path that had been opened by Jules
Isaac’s 1946 book, she chose a paradoxical line of demonstration: She
argued that antisemitism had been born in Germany at the beginning of the
nineteenth century, as a kind of mostly political, “nationalist” reaction
against the progressive integration of the Jewish elite into German society.
In other words, she wrote as if the horrific consequences of anti-Judaism
(discrimination, expulsions, pogroms, etc.) that had happened to the Euro-
pean Jews before 1800 were totally separable from antisemitism—or as if
the concept of “race” was inseparable from a pseudo-biological elaboration
106 Christian Delacampagne

that was unthinkable before the birth of natural sciences, that is, before the
Enlightenment. Today, such a disconnection would be untenable. Although
some authors, and not only Catholic ones, still deny the very possibility of a
Christian antisemitism in prescientific ages, it is becoming more and more
evident that medieval anti-Judaism, far from being purely “theological” as
it has long been assumed, already included a well-developed antisemitic
dimension.6
As for the French historian of Russian origin, Léon Poliakov (1910–
1997), by training he was no more a professional historian than Arendt.
Educated as a jurist and, by virtue of his personal contacts made head of
research at the newly organized Centre de documentation juive contempo-
raine just after the war, he got the opportunity to attend the Nuremberg
trials, which gave him the idea to write, in the wake of the war, the first over-
arching historical study of the Final Solution, Bréviaire de la haine (Harvest
of Hate, 1951). Bréviaire, which was published in France thanks to the help
of Raymond Aron, got an excellent review by Hannah Arendt in the March
1952 issue of the American journal Commentary, and still remains, in spite
of its limitations, the founding act of what has been called since then: “Holo-
caust studies”—a phrase that, paradoxically, we never use in French, since
we prefer the Hebrew word “Shoah,” which means “catastrophe,” without
any religious connotation, rather than the American word (of Greek origin)
“Holocaust,” which implies the historically and metaphysically disputable
idea of a self-accepted sacrifice.
After completing that first book, and partly under the influence of Jules
Isaac (who had been the first one to denounce the “teaching of contempt,”
i.e., the anti-Jewish content of the Christian doctrine conveyed for centuries
by Catholic iconography and liturgy), Poliakov felt the need to go back in
time as far as possible. He wanted to throw light on the deepest roots of
this monstrous attitude, antisemitism, of which the Holocaust had been the
direct consequence. His Histoire de l’antisémitisme was the result of the long
years of solitary research that started then. It constituted the first scientific
work on the multiple aspects of antisemitism in the world over the past two
millennia—and remains, to this day, a major reference.
As an independent adept of Fernand Braudel’s theory of the “longue
durée,” Poliakov established the opposite conclusion to that of Arendt (whom
he nevertheless greatly respected). He demonstrated in a convincing manner
(although against Braudel’s wishes, in this particular case)7 that antisemitism
was a relatively stable object (in spite of the fact that it had endured some
transformations) from the beginning of the Christian era to the second half
of the twentieth century. In other words, Poliakov was the first one to assume
that the concept of a “Jewish race” was at the very heart of antisemitism
many centuries before the first pseudo-biological elaborations of the Enlight-
 Race 107

enment started explicitly. In fact, this concept of a “Jewish race” began to

exist from the very moment the Jews were attributed permanent psycholog-
ical and moral features supposedly transmitted by heredity—which was
unquestionably the case as soon as the Christian era began.
In fact, it was even the case before the Christian era began—as was soon
to be discovered by younger researchers. Some twenty years after the publi-
cation of the first volume of Poliakov’s Histoire de l’antisémitisme, two
European scholars who were experts in Late Antiquity, the Dutch historian
J. N. Sevenster (The Roots of the Pagan Antisemitism in the Ancient World,
Leiden: Brill, 1975), and the French papyrologist Joseph Mélèze Modrze-
jewski (“Sur l’antisémitisme païen,” in Le Racisme: mythes et sciences, edited
by Maurice Olender, Brussels: Editions Complexe, 1981, pp. 411–39),
completed Poliakov’s work, which dealt only briefly with the Ancient Greco-
Roman world. Both of them showed that the attribution of hereditarily fixed
mental and moral features to the Jews, in other words antisemitism, was
much older than the Middle Ages, without being the consequence of some
mysterious “eternal” and “unchanging” phenomenon. It precisely started, in
fact, in a determined time and place: within the Greek community in the city
of Alexandria (Egypt) during the Hellenistic period, that is, somewhere
between the end of the third and the beginning of the second century BC,
when Judeophobic tales began to circulate, asserting that the Jews were
hereditarily leprous, disabled, and impure.
Poliakov—who like Marcel Simon and Jules Isaac tended until then to
look within Christianity (and especially Eastern Christianity) for the first
origins of antisemitism — had some initial difficulties in admitting these
revolutionary findings relating to a Hellenistic antisemitism (although
Eastern Christianity itself was, in part, a direct offspring of Ancient Greek
culture). He ended up being convinced, nevertheless, by the proofs offered
by the two experts on antiquity, as he acknowledged himself in the impor-
tant (although little known and almost never read) preface he wrote in 1981
for a republication of his Histoire de l’antisémitisme in the French paper-
back edition “Pluriel.”8
Simultaneously, during the 1970s, Poliakov moved toward investigations
into the history of other forms of racism (mostly antiblack racism), and
dedicated a lot of work to the study of the construction of systems of racial
classification in the works of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century European
naturalists (the Count of Buffon, Carl Linné, Peter Camper, Johann Blumen-
bach, etc.). Starting in the 1980s, it then became obvious for Poliakov and
his first Jewish or non-Jewish disciples9 that racism and antisemitism were
not phenomena that were foreign to each other or completely separate in
their histories. On the contrary, racism and antisemitism were closely related
attitudes, which proceeded from similar sources and had gone through
108 Christian Delacampagne

distinct yet comparable evolutions over the past two millennia (a conclu-
sion which, of course, does not prevent antisemitism and racism of
possessing their own specific histories).
Nevertheless, in the United States at the same time, most scholars, far
from being familiar with the investigations their European colleagues were
leading (on both sides of the Atlantic, translation has always been a
problem!), still separated antisemitism from racism, and, within their own
study of racism, separated the study of slavery in America from all other
forms of racism in other cultures. As for me, I frankly disagree with this
academic way of separating things: More than ever, I remain convinced that
these complex phenomena share common structural properties and cannot
be properly understood as long as their similarities are not meticulously put
into light.
By chance, that situation is slowly evolving, and English-speaking
research on these issues is currently getting closer to the work that has previ-
ously been done by continental scholars, as is clear by Benjamin Isaac’s latest
book The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity and George Freder-
ickson’s Racism: A Short History.10
In the case of Isaac, an Israeli historian of Dutch origin, one of his
greatest merits has been to demonstrate, against many of his colleagues and
better than anybody else had previously done, that racism was not an
unknown attitude in the ancient greek world in the classical age. It was, on
the contrary, such a common attitude at the time that it is not a surprise at
all to observe that antisemitism too developed in the Greek-speaking area
in the immediate postclassical age, that is, during the Hellenistic age. Yet, in
spite of this current and important evolution of scholarship in the English-
speaking world, we should not rejoice too quickly. Lots of academic efforts
still have to be exerted on both sides of the Atlantic, and not only in the
United States, if we want to fully appreciate, some day, the global impact of
racism and antisemitism on world history.
In any case, if scholarly research has made significant advances over the
past sixty years, it is unquestionable that such advances were primarily the
work of philosophers with a historical turn of mind, whose theoretical
insights were later empirically grounded by the efforts of professional histo-
rians. And at this stage, if we want to be fair, we should recognize that
Sartre’s basic axioms on those topics were not only helpful and inspiring;
they still remain, indeed, the philosophical foundation of our current under-
standing of “race” and racism.
Do I need to make this last claim regarding Sartre more convincing? If
that is the case, I would like—and this will be my conclusion—to stress
one single, major fact. If any researcher wants to understand how the roots
of modern, racial antisemitism may be located within Christian, Medieval
 Race 109

anti-Judaism and, beyond that, within the culture of Greek communities

in Hellenistic Egypt, that researcher will have first to understand that
“racial antisemitism,” “theological anti-Judaism,” “Greek Judaeophobia,”
and so on, were neither “opinions” nor basically different, unrelated atti-
tudes: They simply were different expressions of one singular attitude—the
one we call “antisemitism” tout court. And this is precisely what Sartre
helped us understand.
Sartre was the first one to understand (and make us understand) that anti-
semitism was not an opinion but, as I said previously, a global attitude
possessing its own internal coherence, a way of perceiving the world as such,
an “ideology” in the Marxist sense of the word, a secular religion (Thesis
number 3). Thanks to this and his other important insights, Arendt, Poliakov,
and the younger disciples of the latter became capable of demonstrating the
continuity of antisemitism through the ages and, as a consequence, shed a
new light on its origins as well as its historical transformations.
And this is why, although seventy years have passed and Sartre is perhaps
not as fashionable as he once was, I still regard Réflexions sur la question
juive as a landmark book—in fact, one of the major books that came out
in the twentieth century, and one that future generations, especially if they
are interested in the issue of race, will still read with profit.

Notes
1. Jean-Paul Sartre, Réflexions sur la question juive (1946), Paris: Gallimard,
“Folio Essais’ Collection, no. 10, 1985, p. 24. The translation is mine.
2. Sartre, Réflexions, 10. Two remarks about this passage: (a) The practice of
writing the substantive “Jewish” with a capital letter, as Sartre did in the
French edition of his book, was common in his time. It has disappeared in
France today, since Judaism, in the strict sense of the term, cannot be consid-
ered as something other than a religion. And, in French, the name of the
followers of such and such religion (“un chrétien” for “a Christian,” “un
hindouiste” for “a Hindu,” etc.) is never capitalized, as it is in English for
instance; (b) The reference to the “Code” is not, in this sentence, entirely clear.
Sartre probably used the word “Code” (which was evocative of the so called
Civil Code) as a metaphor to designate law or administrative regulations in
general.
3. I do not intend to make an inventory of those weaknesses, since it has already
been done by Jonathan Judaken in chapter 4 of his own remarkable book
Jean-Paul Sartre and the Jewish Question: Anti-antisemitism and the Politics
of the French Intellectual (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006).
4. In fact, Marcel Simon’s book of 1964 was the republication of his doctoral
thesis, which had been published for the first time in 1948, although under an
extremely confidential form, since it constituted the volume no. 166 of a schol-
arly collection, the Bibliothèque des Ecoles Françaises d’Athènes et de Rome.
According to the foreword of the book, Simon had completed his work by
1939, but, due the Vichy Regime, had to wait until 1948 to see it published for
the first time.
110 Christian Delacampagne
5. Unfortunately, the fifth and last volume of the Histoire de l’antisémitisme by
Léon Poliakov (covering the period from 1945 to 1993) was published much
later than the first four, and by a different publisher (Le Seuil instead of
Calmann-Lévy, who had previously published most of Poliakov’s books, but
rejected this one). It is also, contrary to the first four volumes, a collective
work: Poliakov did in fact direct it and also wrote some of the most important
chapters himself but, judging that his competence could not be universal,
entrusted other chapters to other researchers. Be it for these or for other
reasons, this fifth volume, contrary to the other four volumes, has never been
translated into English; consequently, many English-speaking researchers who
are working on the history of antisemitism are still unaware of its existence.
And yet, no English book, as far as I know, has covered the field of investiga-
tion that is covered by this fifth volume, which deals with antisemitism in the
whole world since the end of World War II, and especially with antisemitism in
the contemporary Arab world, a subject that was almost untouched in 1994
and which is obviously more relevant today than ever before—although many
Western researchers, be it for ignorance of the Arabic language, “political
correctness,” or other motives, are often reluctant to address it.
6. A recognized historian of antisemitism, Gavin I. Langmuir affirms that anti-
semitism properly understood was born only in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries, in the aftermath of the 1096 pogroms that accompanied the first
Crusade: see for instance one of his latest books, History, Religion and Anti-
semitism (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990),
chapter 14. In spite of all my respect for Langmuir, I cannot agree—and, to
my mind, few historians would agree today—with the idea that there was
nothing antisemitic about the violent anti-Judaism of the first Fathers of the
Church. As soon as 386–387, Saint John Chrysostomus delivered in Antiochus
eight sermons against the Jews (Adversus Judaeos), in which he called the Jews
“a people of dogs”: such a collective condemnation of a human group to an
animal species is precisely, by our presentday standards, a typically racist atti-
tude. I admit that it is possible, as Langmuir puts it, that this early Christian
anti-Judaism was limited to educated circles and did not penetrate the illiterate
mob until the twelfth century; but it is unquestionable that it was already, in
its essence, antisemitic.
7. It is an open secret (Poliakov himself told the story at the end of his L’Envers
du destin: entretiens avec Georges Elia Sarfati, Paris: Editions de Fallois, 1989,
pp. 79–80, and more details on it can be found in the republication of Léon
Poliakov’s Mémoires (Paris: Jacques Grancher Editeur, 1999, p. 257, note 11)
that Fernand Braudel (who was an old-fashioned conservative after the war
exactly as he had been before it) did not want to hear about antisemitism, that
he did not want the latter to become the subject of a historical study, and that
he initially denied Poliakov the possibility of transforming his Histoire de l’an-
tisémitisme into a PhD dissertation under his direction.
8. Basically, those proofs (which, of course, do not exonerate the Catholic reli-
gion of its own responsibility in the later aggravation of the situation of the
European Jews) consisted in recently deciphered papyri and other texts. Fifteen
years ago, Joseph Mélèze Modrzejewski, a longtime professor at the University
Paris I (Sorbonne) and at the Ecole pratique des hautes études (fourth section),
presented an exhaustive and detailed view of the situation of the Jews in
ancient Egypt in his excellent (although very little known) book on Les Juifs
d’Egypte de Ramsès II à Hadrien (Paris: Editions Errance, 1991). As for Poli-
akov’s preface of 1981 to his Histoire de l’antisémitisme, that was reedited in
1991 in the paperback “Points” collection (Paris: Editions du Seuil), it is to be
 Race 111

noted that this text has never been added to the English translation of his
book, which may explain why the conception of a Hellenistic antisemitism still
seems unfamiliar to many English-speaking readers or researchers.
9. If I can include myself in this latter group, I will take this opportunity to
emphasize here that this vision of things (considering the history of racism and
antisemitism as the history of two parallel phenomena that have always been,
to a large extent, intricately linked and even inseparable), although it still does
not enjoy the favors of the conservative academic establishment in France, has
always been the one that governed my own research. The reader who would
like to check this point may turn to my doctoral thesis L’Invention du racisme:
Antiquité et Moyen Age (Paris: Fayard, 1983), which I defended in December
of 1982 at the University Paris I-Sorbonne in front of a jury presided by Léon
Poliakov, or to my more recent and more elaborate Histoire du racisme: des
origines à nos jours (Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 2000). A new, augmented, and
revised edition of this last book, which will probably be my last word on the
issue, has been translated into German under the title Die Geschichte des
Rassismus (Düsseldorf and Zurich: Artemis and Winkler Verlag, 2005).
10. Benjamin Isaac, The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 2004). The fact that this book carries the same title
as my own doctoral dissertation (published in 1983 and quoted in the
preceding note) is a mere coincidence, to the extent that Benjamin Isaac, who
teaches at the University of Tel Aviv, did not know me and was unaware of the
existence of my work when he published his own—which, in fact, does not
exactly cover the same historical field as mine. Contrary to me, Benjamin Isaac
decided to put a (temporary?) end to his inquiry at the end of the classical age,
and did not tackle the literature of the Hellenistic period (as soon as he discov-
ered it, Benjamin Isaac mentioned this uncommon coincidence of titles in the
paperback re-edition of his own book, 2006, as well as in the excellent review
of the German version of my Histoire du racisme he published in the Israeli
journal Scripta Classica Israelica, volume 25, 2006). See also, George Freder-
ickson, Racism: A Short History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003).
This page intentionally left blank.
 Chapter 5

Sartre and Levinas

Philosophers against Racism and Antisemitism
Robert Bernasconi

Recent historical research has highlighted how deeply implicated a number

of the canonical figures of modern European philosophy are in the history of
racism: Locke, Kant, and Hegel particularly.1 The sad truth is that there is a
great deal more evidence of Enlightenment philosophers who championed
racist views than there is of Enlightenment philosophers who opposed racist
practices. The abolition of slavery, for example, owed more to a rereading of
the Bible than to arguments proposed by philosophers, even philosophers
appealing to the Bible, and those philosophers who did argue against slavery,
like Granville Sharp, are, in any event, largely forgotten by mainstream
philosophy today. Things are not much better when we move to more recent
history, or even the present: Philosophy has lagged behind other disciplines
in reconceiving its canon in an effort to address its own racist history. What
does this tell us about reason as it has been developed within the Western
philosophical tradition? What resources does philosophy bring to the contin-
uing fight against racism?
Jean-Paul Sartre and Emmanuel Levinas are two of the more prominent
of recent philosophers who offer help in answering these questions. Sartre,
of course, is famous for championing the cause of the oppressed: Réflexions
sur la question juive (Antisemite and Jew), “Orphée noir” (“Black
Orpheus”), and his prefaces to Albert Memmi’s Portrait du colonisé précédé
du portrait du colonisateur (The Colonizer and the Colonized) and to Frantz
Fanon’s Les damnés de la terre (The Wretched of the Earth) are regarded as
classic. Levinas is among the most prominent contributors to what is some-
times called “postholocaust ethics.” He described his life and work as
dominated by the presentiment and memory of the Nazi horror. 2 To be
sure, he was not as clearly focused specifically on racism as was Sartre.
Moreover, as I will show, there seems to me to be some confusion as to how
his work operates as a resource in the battle against racism. Indeed, on

113
114 Robert Bernasconi

occasion he made remarks that are clear evidence of a certain antiblack prej-
udice.3 Nevertheless, the experience of having been persecuted as a Jew was
so central to the formation of his philosophy, as was his effort to develop
intellectual resources to battle against antisemitism, that it is impossible not
to include him among philosophers who have cultivated resources that
combat racism. Most prominent among those resources are his concept of
responsibility.
The perpetuation of the effects of centuries of racism relies on the fact
that whites are all too eager to accept the advantages and privileges that they
have inherited on account of their “race,” while they at the same time try to
limit their responsibilities to those actions for which they can be held directly
accountable in a legal or quasi-legal way. Hence the significance of the fact
that both Sartre and Levinas developed the idea of a responsibility without
limits, a “hyperbolic responsibility,” that is radically distinct from the more
restricted legalistic notion of accountability.
For Sartre, responsibility means being without excuse. My responsibility
arises from my freedom.4 My choice of myself is a choice of the world, so I
am responsible for it and for all human beings. As he explains in L’existen-
tialisme est un humanisme (“Existentialism is a Humanism”), none is free
unless all are free, so my quest for freedom implicates me in the conditions
of everyone else’s freedom.5 My freedom also leaves me having to answer for
the past, even the past before I was born, insofar as my actions contribute
to the meaning ascribed to that past.
A few years later, Levinas similarly proclaimed “my responsibility” for
everything and everybody, including those who persecute me. However, he
did so on different grounds from Sartre. Indeed, in a relatively late work,
Levinas explicitly rejected Sartre’s starting point in the freedom of the for-
itself, electing instead to locate the basis of my responsibility in an absolute
passivity to which he gave the name “substitution.”6 Even before that,
Levinas’s account of my asymmetrical experience in the face of the Other,
of the ethical demand he or she makes on me, a demand to which I am
obliged to respond without concern for myself, was markedly different from
Sartre’s approach, which highlighted the conflictual character of the gaze of
the Other, whereby the one deprives the other of his or her freedom by
reducing him or her to a form of thinghood.
In contrast to my focus on responsibility here, the best discussions of
Sartre’s and Levinas’s analyses of racial oppression have hitherto dwelled
on their rival accounts of the relation to the Other.7 Racism in Levinas’s
account is a denial of the ethical relation to the absolute Other, whereas in
Sartre it is a denial of freedom, not only the Other’s freedom but, insofar as
Sartre held that none are free until all are free, my own freedom as well.
The contrast between the positions of Sartre and Levinas thus readily, and
 Sartre and Levinas 115

with some legitimacy, comes to be viewed as a question of whether politics

or ethics comes first. Whereas Levinas looks to the ethical to interrupt the
political order, Sartre postpones ethics until everyone is ethical, that is to say,
until a just political order has been established.8
However, I shall argue here that Levinas and Sartre do not represent an
antinomy. There are undoubtedly fundamental differences between these
two thinkers when it comes to the fight against racism, but one should not
underestimate what they share, any more than Levinas himself did when, in
an interview from 1980, he responded to Benny Lévy’s conversations with
Sartre published as L’Espoir maintenant (Hope Now) and highlighted
certain points of convergence between them, while at the same time insisting
that Sartre had not in the process, contrary to some critics, abandoned his
general philosophical positions.9 This lends indirect support to my claim
that their contributions on this issue are in certain important respects
complementary.
In order to show this, I need to address the current tendency to under-
stand Sartre and Levinas as presenting opposed viewpoints on this issue.
This tendency relies on the important insight that Levinas’s account of
alterity does not address specific differences: It is not because the Other is
other than me in some determinate sense that there is ethics. Levinas believes
that an ethical encounter with the Other in the face-to-face relation takes
place only when I welcome the Other without reference to any social char-
acteristics. Contrary to a widespread usage that associates alterity with
cultural difference, the face of the Other in Levinas is “abstract or naked,”
without identity, “with no cultural ornament.”10 It is in this spirit that
Levinas declares in “Language and Proximity” that language, “like a
battering ram,” is “the power to break through the limits of culture, body,
and race (espèce).”11 The alterity of the Other is such that, as Levinas says,
I do not notice the color of his or her eyes.12 One can presumably add that
the same applies to the color of the skin.13 It is because Judaism is, unlike
paganism on Levinas’s account, open to alterity that he could write in a
short piece on antisemitism in 1938: Judaism is antipaganism and thus the
opposite of racism.14
However, this important insight into Levinas’s account of alterity has led
interpreters like Alain Finkielkraut to associate it with the notion of color-
blindness and the Enlightenment tradition, the tradition of the Declaration
of the Rights of Man, and thus directly in contrast with Sartre’s approach.15
To be sure, one could object that the Enlightenment philosophes never
sought to abandon racial identities in spite of their universal principles:
This was a myth proposed by opponents of assimilation, such as Leopold
de Saussure, author of Psychologie de la colonization française dans ses
rapports avec les sociétés indigenes, who, for his own purposes, presented
116 Robert Bernasconi

the philosophes as entirely ignorant of the science of race.16 But it is the

interpretation of Levinas that I am primarily concerned with here.
Finkielkraut correctly opposes Levinas to German conceptions of the Volks-
geist in the sense of a spirit with ethnic roots, as well as to multiculturalism,
but he falsely concludes that that leaves Levinas embracing a France that
cannot be reduced to Frenchness, the France of universalistic principles.17
For one thing, Levinas did not even try to hide his ethnocentrism behind the
universalistic principles of the Enlightenment: He was committed to the
indefensible position that “humanity consists of the Bible and the Greeks.
All the rest can be translated: all the rest—all the exotic—is dance.”18 For
another, Levinas’s humanism of the Other is ultimately not a kind of
abstract universalism, as I shall explain.
From the fact that Sartre in Antisemite and Jew rejects the universalist
answer to antisemitism in terms of “a sort of universal and rationalized
body”19 and proposes instead a concrete synthesis for which man does not
exist (RJ 175; AJ 144), Finkielkraut concludes that Levinas and Sartre have
opposed positions on how to combat racism: color-blindness versus
“antiracist racism,” overcoming racism by appealing at once to the univer-
sality of “man” in the Enlightenment tradition versus positive discrimination,
which necessitates continuing use of the categories under which the
oppressed have been identified. If this was the last word, then Levinas and
Sartre would, as Finkielkraut maintains, be offering diametrically opposed
responses to racism.
However, matters are more complex, even for Sartre, who, in his essay on
the negritude poets, “Black Orpheus,” calls for the eventual renunciation of
race identity on the part of blacks for the sake of a raceless and ultimately
classless society, even though he nevertheless supports in the meanwhile
what he called provocatively “an anti-racist racism.”20 Affirmative action
or so-called positive discrimination are forms of what Sartre calls antiracist
racism, and it is worth remembering that, although these approaches are
now widespread, at the time Sartre was heavily criticized for proposing
them. Nevertheless, it is the interpretation of Levinas as an abstract univer-
salist, rather than of Sartre, that I want to challenge here.
The problem with casting Levinas as an opponent of Sartre emerges most
clearly in the context of Levinas’s “Existentialism and Antisemitism,” his
response to a lecture Sartre gave to the Alliance Israélite Universelle in 1947
under the title “Reflections on the Jewish Question,” the same title as the
book that he had just published. However, rather than simply paraphrasing
the earlier discussion, Sartre reworked his ideas in part in response to criti-
cisms and in part to clarify his earlier discussion, which he believed had been
misunderstood.21 For example, the central thesis of the book, that the anti-
semite makes the Jew (RJ 84; AJ 69), is asserted only in the more nuanced
 Sartre and Levinas 117

and defensible form that antisemites, “having constructed from scratch a Jew
who is simply the replica of their hatred of analytical spirit, of negation, of
nuance, have created a portrait of the Jew that ends up being the image we
encountered during the period of the Occupation” (R 89; O 42).
This formulation highlights a further point. Although Sartre in Anti-
semite and Jew rehearses the usual objection of existential phenomenology
against analytical reason that it breaks up what it cannot subsequently
reconstitute, he seems to favor synthetic thought, even though it is the kind
of thought employed by the antisemite. Not yet in possession of the dialectic
that incorporates a role for analytic thinking—or at least operating with
only the crudest conception of it as revealed by his treatment in “Black
Orpheus” of a racism sublated through antiracist racism into universalism—
Sartre operates with the somewhat crude opposition of analysis and
synthesis that had been at the heart also of some of the methodological
problems of Being and Nothingness. Nevertheless, in an important conces-
sion, Sartre in the lecture stresses that analytic reason had played a
productive role as a weapon against privilege and that employing an analyt-
ical conception of society and of man had helped to establish a bourgeois
society (R 82–83; O 34–35).
Levinas did not use the occasion of Sartre’s lecture to contribute to the
rising tide of objections against his position, other than to acknowledge in
passing the legitimacy of the complaint that Sartre linked Jewish destiny to
antisemitism, a criticism that arose from Sartre’s failure to take any account
of the inherent character of Judaism as revealed in its history.22 Instead, Lev-
inas applauds “the wholly new” weapons that Sartre employs against anti-
semitism, and he specifies first and foremost Sartre’s attack on the analytical
vision of society according to which the human being is conceived as “inde-
pendent of his milieu, birth, religion, social condition” (IH 120; UH 74). Lev-
inas identifies as outmoded the discourses inspired by the Judeo-Christian
tradition but “reformulated in our times in terms of seventeenth- and eigh-
teenth-century rationalism” (IH 121; UH 74). Furthermore, he celebrates
existentialism as a philosophy that recognizes that “the mind is tied by com-
mitments that are not structured as knowledge” (IH 122; UH 75).
Levinas sees Sartre as providing an indication of how one can surpass a
situation—social, historical, and material—not in terms of consciousness
but from elsewhere. Until Sartre’s existentialism, it seemed that there was
no way to offer a philosophy of the situation without denying the rights of
man and thereby giving up the defense against antisemitism. Yet the ideas
of the rights of man had proved inadequate to protect the Jews. According
to Levinas, the ease with which the followers of Nietzsche had been able to
articulate a philosophy of blood and soil could be explained by the absence
of a rigorously developed alternative. Levinas illustrates that inadequacy by
118 Robert Bernasconi

rehearsing an antinomy that he had found documented by a UNESCO

circular: “The freedom of the individual is inconceivable without economic
liberation, but the organization of economic freedom is not possible without
the temporary but temporarily unlimited enslavement of the individual”
(IH 121; UH 74). Even though Sartre himself acknowledged in his talk he
had been criticized in his appraisal of antisemitism for treating it on the
psychological and physical level and not on the level of economics, Levinas
seems to have seen its potential for taking the broader view.
The fact that Levinas praises Sartre’s critique of the Enlightenment tradi-
tion, the very tradition to which Levinas was assimilated by Finkielkraut,
will come as no surprise to careful readers of “Quelques réflexions sur la
philosophie de l’hitlerisme,” (“Reflections on the Philosophy of Hitlerism”),
Levinas’s 1934 essay. Particularly when read in conjunction with “De l’éva-
sion” (“Of Escape”) from 1935, this essay already anticipates Sartre in
suggesting a new way of surpassing the alternatives thought has inherited for
addressing racism. At the outset Levinas rejects the attempt to judge concrete
events in terms of the logical contradiction between Christian universalism
and racist particularism, the very contradiction on which Finkielkraut
insists.23 Levinas proposes to go deeper. He concludes that universalism and
racist particularism are not opposed when the latter turns into the former by
pursuing expansion through war and conquest (RPH 207; RH 70). To be
sure, Levinas identifies another form of universalization that does not
employ racist particularism, universalization by the propagation of ideas,
whereby the idea detaches itself from its point of departure to become a
common heritage. As we shall see, Levinas thinks of Judaism in these terms
and is able to do so because he preeminently thinks of Jews as strangers on
the earth in perpetual exile and thus as predisposed, as it were, to present
ideas that are “fundamentally anonymous” in the sense that they are not tied
to a specific soil or source.
However, it is Levinas’s analysis of National Socialism and the resources
available to combat it in “Reflections on the Philosophy of Hitlerism” that
is of most significance here. Levinas presents Judaism, through its notion of
repentance and pardon, and Christianity, through its idea of salvation
secured by the crucifixion, as both overcoming the irreversibility of time and
history that is characteristic of Greek notions of destiny. By allowing for a
true beginning in the present, both traditions establish an idea of freedom of
which the liberal idea of a sovereign freedom of autonomous reason is but
a pale shadow. Furthermore, liberalism is in danger of championing the
skepticism that prides itself on the possibility of going back on one’s choice,
so that freedom degenerates into not chaining oneself to a truth. This reveals
itself in a lack of commitment to “the creation of spiritual values” (RPH
206; RH 69–70).
 Sartre and Levinas 119

Levinas believes that the idea that the body is an obstacle to be overcome,
an idea which liberalism inherited from Christianity, disregards that feeling of
identity between our bodies and ourselves that is experienced in physical
pain. This feeling of identity is at the basis of Hitlerism’s radically new con-
ception of man (RPH 203–205; RH 67–68). Hitlerism sees man’s essence not
in freedom but in bondage to the body, to the biological, blood, and heredity
(RPH 205; RH 69). Levinas here and in his subsequent works formulates a
philosophy that, in contrast with the Christian tradition, acknowledges the
inherent value of the body’s adherence to the self as something one does not
escape but to which one cannot be reduced (RPH 205; RH 68).
Such a philosophy is better equipped to combat racism. It is clear that
already in 1934 Levinas was convinced that liberalism and contemporary
Christian culture lacked the resources to challenge racism effectively. It is
because liberal universalism lost sight of the body that it opened the door
to those, like the Nazis, who wanted to assert the primacy of the biological,
and of ideas of blood and race. “Reflections on the Philosophy of Hitlerism”
vindicates Finkielkraut’s conviction that Levinas was opposed to the
German Volksgeist, but read in conjunction with an essay he published in
Lithuanian in 1933, it is clear that Levinas was no more enamored of French
universalist culture. Indeed, he refuses to say which of the two spiritual
worlds is better. They both have their dangers.24
In “On Escape” from 1935 Levinas explores the same ideas as can be
found in “Reflections on the Philosophy of Hitlerism” in a more ontological
idiom. Against the bourgeois spirit that nourishes capitalism, he asks if its
fostering of a self-sufficient ego is not challenged by the experience of
suffering in which one feels riveted to one’s body.25 However, in keeping
with “Reflections on the Philosophy of Hitlerism” Levinas also dismisses as
barbaric any civilization that accepts being (DE 98; OE 73). He thereby
identifies the humanity of the human with the aspiration to surpass being,
coupled with the inability to do so, and this aporetic conjunction is what
Levinas consistently articulates in his philosophical works, long before he
finds it concretely realized in the ethical relation to the Other.26
This structure is exemplified by the experience of pain, where one’s desire
to escape is frustrated by the feeling of being riveted to one’s body, and he
uses the same expression to describe the facticity of being Jewish under the
form of antisemitism cultivated by Hitler: “the Jew is ineluctably riveted to
his Judaism.”27 Levinas would say to Francois Poirié many years later that
“Of Escape” signified the human beyond the Jewish condition.28 However,
that does not mean that he arrived at the human by abstracting from the
particularities of the Jewish condition to establish the universal. If the face
of the Other is “abstract,” it is not in logical terms but only in the sense of
being absolute, that is to say, not integratable into the horizons of the world
120 Robert Bernasconi

(HH 42 and 57–58; HO 31 and 39). Hence, in “Being Jewish,” a text from
1947, he says that “the human soul is perhaps naturally Jewish.”29 The
Jewish condition testifies to the human. It does not represent something
concrete that must be discarded on the way to the human.
This description of ‘the Jew’ riveted to Judaism is in certain respects paral-
leled by Sartre’s account in Antisemite and Jew: “the Jew” is objectified in the
gaze, reduced to an essence, a thing, in the eyes of the antisemite (RJ 93; AJ
76–77). However, ‘the Jew’ nevertheless escapes this facticity by virtue of the
structure of consciousness: consciousness is what it is not and is not what it
is (EN 103; BN 63). Nevertheless, in “Being Jewish,” in an attempt to clarify
some of the differences between Sartre and himself, Levinas reiterates that
Jews rediscovered in Hitlerism the irremissibility of their being (EJ 103).
Yet, for all the kind words Levinas uttered in “Existentialism and
Antisemitism,” in “Being Jewish” he claims that Sartre cannot see the dimen-
sion in which Jewish existence is located, and so is blind to its originality,
which consists in breaking with a world without origin that is simply present
(EJ 105). This is reflected in their rival positions on Jewish facticity.
According to Sartre, “the Jew” in an antisemitic world has no alternative
but to assume his facticity, although there are an infinite number of ways of
doing so, including denying that race is a collective fiction (EN 612; BN
529). According to Levinas, there is a Jewish facticity different from the
“facticity of the world” which understands itself on the basis of the present
(EJ 103). This objection anticipates what Fanon issued when he complained
that Sartre had forgotten that the white man experiences his body in a way
different from the black.30
In “Being Jewish” Levinas assimilates Sartre to the philosophy of idealism
(EJ 102). He has in mind Sartre’s tendency to highlight how it is through
the gaze of another that identities are constructed. To be sure, Sartre in the
Critique de la raison Dialectique (Critique of Dialectical Reason) corrected
this failure: in order to make oneself a bourgeois, one must first be bour-
geois. 31 This is because class — and race too, as Sartre’s examples make
clear—already exists as “the crystallized practice” of previous generations,
so that individuals find an existence, a future sentence, sketched out for them
at birth (CRD 289 and 302; CDR 232 and 250).
We might also recall how Levinas already in “Existentialism and Anti-
semitism” highlights how Sartre’s achievement as an opponent of
antisemitism lay in large part because not everything was reduced to
thought. Sartre pursues this approach to the point where in the Critique of
Dialectical Reason he insisted that racism is not a thought but “the colonial
interest lived as a link of all the colonialists of the colony through the serial
flight of alterity” (CRD 344n; CDR 300n). To belong to a collective being,
such as a race or a class, is, on Sartre’s provisional analysis in the Critique,
 Sartre and Levinas 121

to belong to a matrix or milieu such that this collective being is in everyone

to the extent that everyone is in it (CRD 305; CDR 252).
However, Sartre offers a more refined account later in the book in terms
of the notion of seriality and at the same time revises the discussion in
Antisemite and Jew. In his earlier works Sartre had tended to highlight the
ontological bond experienced by the oppressed under the gaze of the
oppressor and, by contrast, reduced to the level of psychology the bond
between the oppressors because they are not united by a gaze (EN 496–97;
BN 424–25). This provides an excellent basis for explaining both the soli-
darity uniting the oppressed under a description and the somewhat looser
ties that one sometimes finds among the oppressors, such as is reflected in the
tendency of the bourgeois or whites to deny the saliency of class or race in a
world dominated by it. They literally do not see what is sustaining them
because their own identity is invisible to them, even while they see a corre-
sponding identity in others. In Antisemite and Jew Sartre discusses the
relations that one Jew has to another only in the case of the authentic Jew
(RJ 178; AJ 147). By the time of the Critique Sartre has a richer ontological
framework in place and so he presents “the Jew” not as a type but in a
correct response of relationships that he describes as “the internal serial
unity of Jewish multiplicities” (CRD 317; CDR 267).
To explain this difficult idea, Sartre offers the example of a Jewish doctor
who is told that there are too many Jewish doctors and who responds by
finding the other Jewish doctors dispensable. Sartre accounts for this by
going beyond the way that individual Jews living in a hostile society might
be directly threatened by antisemites and indirectly threatened insofar as
they see other Jews being persecuted as Jews, and by introducing into his
account the additional observation that in an antisemitic society Jews do not
always experience themselves as bound together by the gaze of the Other,
as his earlier analysis had suggested. They can also experience their own
otherness as Jews precisely to the extent that they too come to see other Jews
as other. When antisemites complain that there are too many Jewish doctors,
then this need not necessarily bind any single Jewish doctor to all the others,
but can mean that to the extent that one of them sees him- or herself as
other, then that doctor also sees the other Jewish doctors as his or her others
as without them there would not be many Jewish doctors at all and the
problem would be solved.
Later in the volume Sartre shows that a similar structure operates among
racists and antisemites following the seriality of racism: Racism and anti-
semitism on this model are the attitude of the Other and as such sustained
by a group (CRD 622; CDR 652). So, if one beats one’s slaves, one does it
because everyone else does it. In keeping with these insights Sartre,
according to reports of his still unpublished Rome lecture on ethics, argues
122 Robert Bernasconi

that racism is a morality of repetition which obliges the colonizer to do what

is necessary to sustain the results of past praxis. That is to say, racism is the
way colonists freely assume the position that they are dialectically forced to
by the colonial system that sustains them, independent of their individual
desires and beliefs.32
One way in which racism perpetuates itself is by focusing almost exclu-
sively on racist discourse as the locus of racism whereas what is important
is how racism is perpetuated as a system. Racism or colonialism can main-
tain itself as a system by transferring responsibility elsewhere. White families
might decide to move house when a black family buys a house on the same
street, not because they themselves have any personal objection to a black
presence there, but because they fear that its arrival might impact the price
other white families would pay for a house on the street. They therefore
join other residents in putting their own houses on the market and if a signif-
icant number of them do so, prices inevitably fall: It proves to be a
self-fulfilling prophecy. It is striking that such thinking could perpetuate
itself without there being any white family in the world that does not want
to live on the same street as a black family: Each family needs only believe
that there are white families who think that way for the effect to be real-
ized. The perpetuation of racism on this account is not dependent on an
individual’s thoughts. Sartre presents racism as an ideology invented to
perpetuate a condition that exists for the advantage of one group. It is then
this condition and not the ideology that is fundamentally racist and thus
whoever does not work to alter that situation is on this account racist. In this
way Sartre’s idea of seriality illuminates the meaning and basis of so-called
institutional racism and the way we participate in it.
Levinas’s analysis of institutional racism may not be as rich as Sartre’s,
but he offers a proposal for combating oppression at the economic level.
Indeed, his whole philosophy should be understood as an attempt to insist
that this must be done, in spite of a widespread suspicion to the contrary.
For Levinas, one cannot approach the Other with empty hands.33 In the
1953 essay “The Ego and the Totality” he offered concrete indications of
how this might happen in a way that the wrongs done to oppressed groups
might be addressed. In this essay Levinas identifies as “true violence” not the
violence of the sword, but the violence of gold, of money, which is “the way
of peacetime violence, exploitation, or slow death.”34 Nevertheless, he also
concedes that gold can also be an instrument of justice in reparations. So
long as violence is addressed only by vengeance or forgiveness then the evil
persists: “evil engenders evil, and pardon extended infinitely encourages it”
(MT 373; CP 45).
Nothing can better serve to disturb the standard picture of Levinas as a
philosopher of transcendence who elevates the face of the Other at the
 Sartre and Levinas 123

expense of ontology and economics than these lines. The suggestion is not
that there is a fair sum that would establish equity in the face of past injus-
tice. It is merely that without compensation, without reparations, all efforts
at reconciliation and forgiveness, however noble, are worthless. 35 In so
saying, Levinas distinguishes between desire and need. Although it is only
through desire that one has access to the Other as such, one cannot disregard
the Other’s needs. Both levels must be addressed: it is qua Other that
someone who is hungry calls on me to feed them. The same goes for identi-
ties. The self is without identity and the absolute Other as such is abstract,
but this does not oblige me to bypass or neglect the Other’s demand to
respect his or her identity. Far from it. Sartre in his lecture on the Jewish
Question explains how until 1939 he had believed that there were not Jews
but just men; it was only when he was being interviewed for a Swiss journal
on the Jewish Question that a Jew, Arnold Mandel, made it clear to him that,
“attached to his people, utterly patriotic, [he] was rather disappointed to
realize that I was not ready to see in him anything but a man similar to
others” (R 83; O 35). Levinas would have responded similarly. It should be
remembered that Levinas, for all his insistence on absolute alterity, is
committed to maintaining Jewish identity.36
The decisive philosophical division on the question of racism is therefore
not that between Sartre and Levinas. Rather, the division is methodolog-
ical: On the one hand, there are those philosophers who restrict their efforts
to identifying those specific ideas that constitute racism, so as to isolate and
reject them, thereby allowing for related ideas to be exonerated. And on the
other hand, those philosophers who see racism as a system that is fostered by
the failure to see it as a system. Levinas and Sartre both belong to the latter
group, but there are differences between them. Sartre has the better account
of how racism operates in a systematic way, whereas Levinas, properly
understood, contributes more to the understanding of at least one way in
which the targets of racism might philosophically negotiate the nonphilo-
sophical experience of persecution from their own resources.37 Furthermore,
Sartre shows that analytic reason is subordinated to dialectical reason and
serves as a moment of the latter (CRD 148; CDR 59). Levinas does not
exhibit a comparable sense of the resources of analytic reason, which leaves
him particularly exposed when his own failure to appreciate cultures beyond
those of Greece and the Bible is at issue. Nonetheless, drawing on the
resources of phenomenology, both Sartre and Levinas offer an alternative
to the so-called Enlightenment universalist approach by emphasizing the
positive role played by the bodily within a synthetic or holistic account of
identity to which one is nevertheless not reduced.
There is a widespread view that our best resources in the fight against
racism lie in an appeal to Enlightenment universalism, in drawing distinctions
124 Robert Bernasconi

between the biological and the cultural or between race and ethnicity, and in
the promotion of color-blindness. I do not deny the contribution that has
been made by the appeal to universal rights and principles, nor the contin-
uing necessity to do so in political argument today. Nor do I deny the desir-
ability on occasion of drawing distinctions between the biological and the
cultural or between race and ethnicity, but I question whether these should be
regarded as our ultimate resources if we are no longer willing to promote the
distinction between body and mind on which they are based. Finally, I
acknowledge that insofar as we mean by a colorblind society a society free of
discrimination, then, of course, I would support it. But if, by contrast, color-
blindness means that, as Sartre proposed in “Black Orpheus,” blacks should
be asked to renounce their blackness, or Jews to conceal their Jewishness for
the sake of creating a society free of discrimination, then a serious mistake is
being made. Nobody knows what would happen to so-called racial identities
in such a society, but, even if one could succeed in renouncing talk of identi-
ties without first addressing the effects of past racisms, which seems unlikely,
this would be a way of hiding the problem, not moving toward its solution.
That is why I think that, notwithstanding their defects, the efforts of Sartre
and Levinas to promote our responsibility to address racism deserve to be
central reference points in a debate on how racism can best be combated.38

Notes
1. See, for example, Robert Bernasconi, “Locke’s Almost Random Talk of Man,”
Perspektiven der Philosophie 18 (1992): 293–318; “Kant as an Unfamiliar
Source of Racism” in Philosophers on Race, ed. T. Lott and J. Ward (Oxford:
Blackwell, 2002), 145–66; and “Hegel at the Court of the Ashanti” in Hegel
after Derrida, ed. Stuart Barnett (London: Routledge, 1998), 41–63.
2. Emmanuel Levinas, Difficile Liberté (Paris, Ablin Michel, 1976), 373; trans.
Seán Hand, Difficult Freedom (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1990), 291.
3. I first made this case in “Who Is My neighbor? Who Is the Other?” in Ethics
and Responsibility in the Phenomenological Tradition, The Ninth Annual
Symposium of the Simon Silverman Phenomenology Center, Pittsburgh:
Duquesne University, 1992, 1–31. Now reprinted in ed. Claire Katz,
Emmanuel Levinas: Critical Assesments (London: Routledge, 2005), vol. 4,
5–30.
4. Jean-Paul Sartre, L’être et le néant (Paris: Gallimard, 1943), 638–42; trans.
Hazel Barnes, Being and Nothingness (London, Methuen, 1957), 553–56.
Henceforth EN and BN respectively.
5. Jean-Paul Sartre, L’existentialisme est un humanisme (Paris: Nagel, 1946),
83–84; trans. Philip Mauret, Existentialism and Humanism (London:
Methuen, 1968), 52.
6. Emmanuel Levinas, Autrement qu’être ou au-delà de l’essence (The Hague:
Martinus Nijhoft, 1974), 131; trans. Alphonso Lingis, Otherwise Than Being
or Beyond Essence (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1981), 103.
 Sartre and Levinas 125

7. One of these, Rudi Vissker’s essay entitled “The Gaze of the Big Other:
Levinas and Sartre on Racism,” takes me to task for being too generous to
Levinas and for not seeing the virtues of Sartre’s account. See Truth and
Singularity (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1999), 348. There is some merit to the objec-
tion that I have devoted more energy to developing the resources Levinas
provides for combating racism than exposing his philosophical blindspots and
his personal limitations, but it is not true that I have ignored Sartre’s resources.
See already “Sartre’s Gaze Returned: The Transformation of the Phenome-
nology of Racism,” Graduate Faculty Philosophy Journal 18.2 (1995):
201–21. Reprinted in ed. William L. McBride, Existentialist Ethics (New York:
Garland, 1997), 359–79.
8. Emmanuel Levinas, “Politique Après,” L’au-delà du verset (Paris: Minuit,
1982), 221–28; trans. Gary D. Mole, Beyond the Verse (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1994), 188–95. Jean-Paul Sartre, Cahiers pour une morale
(Paris, Gallimard, 1983), 16; trans. David Pellauer, Notebooks for an Ethics
(Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1992), 9.
9. Emmanuel Levinas, “Quand Sartre découvre l’histoire sainte,” Les imprévus de
l’histoire, 158; trans. “When Sartre Discovers Holy History,” Unforeseen
History, 98.
10. Emmanuel Levinas, Humanisme de l’autre homme (Montepelier: Fata
Morgana, 1972), 48; trans. Nidra Poller, Humanism of the Other (Urbana:
University of Illinois Press, 2003), 32.
11. Emmanuel Levinas, En découvrant l’existence avec Husserl et Heidegger
(Paris: Vrin, 1974), 232; trans. Alphonso Lingis, Collected Philosophical
Papers (Dordrecht: Martinus Nijhoff, 1987), 122.
12. Emmanuel Levinas, Éthique et infini (Paris: Fayard, 1982), 89; trans. Richard
Cohen, Ethics and Infinity (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 1985), 85.
13. Indeed, Levinas seems to have said exactly that—“to be in relation with the
face means that upon seeing a black, one does not notice the color of his
skin”—in an interview with J. Goud in God als Raadsel (Kampen: Kok.
Agora, 1992), 165. Cited R. Vissker, Truth and Singularity, 381.
14. Emmanuel Levinas, “A propos de la mort du pape Pie XI,” in Emmanuel
Levinas, ed. Chalier and Abensour, 152. See also Difficile Liberté, 232; Diffi-
cult Freedom, 170.
15. Alain Finkielkraut, La sagesse de l’amour (Paris: Gallimard, 1984), 25–45;
trans. Kevin O’Neill and David Suchoff, The Wisdom of Love (Lincoln:
University of Nebraska Press, 1997), 9–24: and L’humanité perdue (Paris Seuil,
1996), 41–64; trans. Judith Friedlander, In the Name of Humanity (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1999), 25–42. For Levinas’s discussion of the
rights of man see, for example, Emmanuel Levinas, “Les droits de l’homme et
les droits d’autrui,” Hors sujet (Montpelier: Fata Morgana, 1987), 173–87;
trans. Michael B. Smith, Outside the Subject (Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 1993), 116–25. However, to understand Finkielkraut’s position in its full
complexity, one must know that he had at one time adopted Sartre’s position
as set out in Antisemite and Jew. See Le Juif imaginaire (Paris: Seuil, 1980),
16; trans. Kevin O’Neill and David Suchoff, The Imaginary Jew (Lincoln:
University of Nebraska Press, 1994), 9.
16. Léopold de Saussure, Psychologie de la colonization française dans ses
rapports avec les sociétés indigenes (Paris: Felix Alcan, 1899), 294–311.
17. Alain Finkielkraut, La défaite de la pensée (Paris: Gallimard, 1987), 125;
trans. Judith Friedlander, The Defeat of the Mind (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1995), 102.
126 Robert Bernasconi
18. Raoul Mortley, French Philosophers in Conversation (London: Routledge,
1991), 18.
19. Jean-Paul Sartre, Réflexions sur la question juive (Paris: Gallimard, 1954),
147; trans. George J. Becker, Antisemite and Jew (New York: Schocken, 1976),
121. Henceforth RJ and AJ respectively.
20. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Orphée Noir,” in Anthologie de la nouvelle poésie négre et
malgache, ed. Leopold Senghor (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1948),
xiv; trans. John MacCombie, “Black Orpheus,” in Race, ed. Robert Bernasconi
(Oxford: Blackwell, 2001), 118.
21. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Réflexions sur la question juive,” Les cahiers du judaisme 3
(Autumn 1998): 82–92; trans. Rosalind Krauss and Dennis Hollier, “Reflec-
tions on the Jewish Question. A Lecture,” October 87 (Winter 1999): 33–46.
Henceforth R and O respectively. A short report on Sartre’s lecture was
published at the time under the title “Conférence de Jean-Paul Sartre,” Les
Cahiers de l’Alliance Israelite Universelle 14–15 (June/July 1947): 3 and 14.
22. Emmanuel Levinas, “Existentialisme et antisémitisme,” Les imprévus de l’his-
toire (Montpelier: Fata Morgana, 1994), 120; trans. Nidra Poller,
“Existentialism and Antisemitism,” Unforeseen History (Urbana: University of
Illinois Press, 2004), 73. Henceforth IM and UH respectively.
23. Emmanuel Levinas, “Quelques réflexions sur la philosophie de l’hitlerisme,”
Esprit, 1934), 199; trans. Seán Hand, “Reflections on the Philosophy of
Hitlerism,” Critical Inquiry 17 (1990): 64. Henceforth RPH and RH respec-
tively. Michel Delherz cites Alain Finkielkraut when he presents “Reflections
on the Philosophy of Hitlerism” as an argument in favor of a liberal univer-
salism as opposed to a racist particularism, in “La ‘Kehre’ levinassienne,”
Revue Philosophique de Louvain, 2002, pp. 129 and 139.
24. Emmanuel Levinas, “The Understanding of Spirituality in French and German
Culture,” Continental Philosophy Review 31 (1998): 10.
25. Emmanuel Levinas, De l’évasion (Montpelier: Fata Morgana, 1982), 70; trans.
Bettina Bergo, On Escape (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), 52.
Henceforth DE and OE respectively.
26. See Robert Bernasconi, “No Exit: Levinas’s Aporetic Account of Transcen-
dence,” Research in Phenomenology 35 (2005): 101–17.
27. Emmanuel Levinas, “L’inspiration religieuse de l’Alliance,” Emmanuel Levinas,
ed. Catherine Chalier and Miguel Abernsour (Paris: Editions de l’Herne,
1991), 144.
28. François Poirié, Emmanuel Levinas. Qui êtes-vous? (Lyon: La Manufacture,
1987), 83; trans. Jill Robbins and Marcus Coelen, Is It Righteous to Be? (Stan-
ford: Stanford University Press, 2001), 39.
29. Emmanuel Levinas, “Etre juif,” Cahier d’Etudes Lévinassiennes 1 (2002), 103.
Henceforth EJ.
30. Frantz Fanon, Peau noire, masques blancs (Paris: Seuil, 1952), 112; trans.
Charles Lam Markmann, Black Skin, White Masks (New York: Grove, 1967),
138.
31. Jean-Paul Sartre, Critique de la raison dialectique (Paris: Gallimard, 1960),
289; trans. Alan Sheridan-Smith, Critique of Dialectical Reason (London:
NLB, 1976), 231. Henceforth CRD and CDR respectively.
32. Robert V. Stone and Elizabeth A. Bowman, “Dialectical Ethics: A First Look at
Sartre’s Unpublished 1964 Rome Lecture Notes,” Social Text 13–14 (1986):
205–206.
33. Emmanuel Levinas, Totalité et Infini (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1961),
21; trans. Alphonso Lingis, Totality and Infinity (Pittsburgh: Duquesne Univer-
sity Press, 1969), 50.
 Sartre and Levinas 127

34. Emmanuel Levinas, “Le moi et la totalité,” Revue de Métaphysique et de

Morale 59 (1954): 367; trans. Alphonso Lingis, Collected Philosophical
Papers (Dordrecht: Martinus Nijhoff, 1987), 39. Henceforth MT and CP
respectively.
35. See, further, Robert Bernasconi, “The Third Party: Levinas on the Intersection
of the Ethical and the Political,” Journal of the British Society for Phenome-
nology 30.1 (January 1999): 76–87. The full version of this paper, which
includes a section on racism that had to be omitted from the English version
for reasons of space can be found in Antie Kapust’s translation: “Wer ist der
Dritte? Uberkreuzung von Ethik und Politik bei Levinas?” Der Anspruch des
Anderen, ed. B. Waldenfels and I. Därmann (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1998),
87–110.
36. See Alex Klaushoper, “The Foreignness of the Other: Universalism and
Cultural Identity in Levinas’ Ethics,” Journal of the British Society for
Phenomenology, 31.1 (January 2000): 65.
37. I make this argument in “ ‘Only the Persecuted . . .’: Language of the
Oppressor, Language of the Oppressed,” in Ethics as First Philosophy, ed.
Adriaan T. Pepezak (New York: Routledge, 1995), 77–86.
38. An earlier version of this paper was delivered at Rhodes University in Graham-
stown, South Africa, as part of their centenary celebrations. I am grateful to
them for the hospitality I received and for their comments. A German transla-
tion by Julia Scheidegger of a marginally different version of this paper was
published under the title “Sartre und Levinas: Philosopher gegen Rassismus
und Antisemitismus” in Verfehlte Begegnung. Levinas und Sartre als
philosophischen Zeitgenossen, ed. Thomas Bedorf und Andreas Cremonini
(Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 2005), 205–222. I am grateful to the publishers and
the editors for permission to publish this text here. I would like to thank
Jonathan Judaken for various suggestions that I have been happy to incorpo-
rate into the English-language version of this chapter.
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 Chapter 6

European Intellectuals
and Colonial Difference
Césaire and Fanon beyond Sartre and Foucault

George Ciccariello-Maher

This chapter approaches the question of the long and fraught relationship
between European philosophy and colonialism from a direction which is—
at least at the outset — immanent to Europe itself. That is, I begin by
excavating a debate within European philosophy in order to grasp both the
limits of European thought and the parameters of its transcendence.1 I set
out from Foucault’s critique of Sartre’s assertion that the situation of the
intellectual implies an imperative toward totalization with the aspiration to
a universal view. Through a focus on the analyses both authors offer of the
gaze, we will see that Foucault offers a critique of Sartre’s abstract gaze.
But Sartre’s “lucidity” regarding the materiality of his own intellectual
gaze—a lucidity deriving in large part from the existentialist emphasis on
the situation—effectively makes his thought more sensitive to the impera-
tives of thinkers from the anticolonial periphery, specifically Frantz Fanon.
In this way, Sartre’s self-reflexive deference to Fanon serves to indicate the
limitations of Sartre’s own thought while simultaneously allowing that
thought to reach outwards. That is to say, it was only by coming to terms
with his own situation that Sartre could best contribute to decolonial philos-
ophy, and this contribution takes the form primarily of an understanding
of the limits of European philosophy. Moreover, given the importance of
this “colonial difference” at the heart of European thought, Sartre’s tacit
admission that Europeans are not in a position to properly understand colo-
nialism implies by extension that European philosophy cannot even
understand itself.2
It is from this perspective that I turn, at the end of the chapter, to a discus-
sion of alter-humanism as it emerges in the thought of Fanon and his
predecessor, Aimé Césaire, in order to sketch the parameters of “a humanism
made to the measure of the world” which is simultaneously treated as a reso-
lution of the European debate on the intellectual.3 Put another way, since it

129
130 George Ciccariello-Maher

is these alter-humanisms that serve as the material vehicle for the very tran-
scendence of Europe, the European debate on the intellectual provides a
crucial point of entry to grasp the implications for European thought of
formulations of humanism arising in different contexts.
My argument as a whole might appear to take the form of a dialectic
that moves backward historically: To a difficulty posed by Foucault, I reply
with an answer previously provided by Sartre, only to demonstrate that
behind this answer, Fanon’s even earlier critique looms large. Finally, I take
yet another step back to Césaire, finding in Fanon’s teacher the resolution of
Foucault’s original problematic. But there is nothing backward about this
progress, and much less is it arbitrary. Rather, it is a process that some might
ironically consider “genealogical”: That a racialized Caribbean thinker can
provide so potent a reply to a problem formulated two decades later says
much about the effectiveness with which colonial difference privileges and
universalizes some voices by provincializing and thereby discrediting others.

The Sartre-Foucault Debate: The Situation

of the European Intellectual
The divide between Sartre and Foucault on the status of the intellectual was
a subset of a broader discussion — the so-called debate on humanism —
which raged in European philosophy during the 1950s and 1960s, and
whose central points of contention included the essentialization of human
nature and the exaggeration of human agency generally associated with the
existentialist humanist project. 4 While I will return to the question of
humanism later, here I would like to focus on one central difference that
separated the radical humanist (broadly existentialist) and radical antihu-
manist (broadly structuralist and poststructuralist) participants in the
debate: that of the relationship between the situation and totalization. As we
will see, the existentialist emphasis on the implications of situatedness would
prove central to the disagreement between Sartre and Foucault regarding the
intellectual, and this disagreement would have prodigious implications for
the philosophies and political potential of both.
As it appears in Sartre’s seminal Being and Nothingness, the situation
could not be more central, as it provides the foundation for subjectivity
without which there could be no such thing as human freedom. This cen-
trality is clear in the fact that “for the for-itself, to exist and to be situated are
one in the same,” and already we can sense the weight of the totalizing imper-
ative implied by the situation, since Sartre continues that “the world is the
total situation of the for-itself and the measure of its existence.”5 However,
this situation is not external to that subjectivity that it enables, since it “is not
a pure contingent given . . . [but rather] is revealed only to the extent that the
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 131

for-itself surpasses it toward itself.”6 The situation is best understood, in

short, as a combination of the realm of facticity with the subjective response
of the for-itself to that facticity, thereby encompassing what might be deemed
both structure and agency and defining the freedom of the latter only in
active response to the former. This emphasis on the situation—so central to
existentialist doctrine from the outset—would have momentous effects on a
number of later developments, not least of which concerns Sartre’s formula-
tion of the role of the intellectual. Sartre’s recognition that intellectuals, like
everyone else, exist in a situation requires that they come to terms with the
content of that situation. This imperative simultaneously marks Sartre’s dis-
tance from Foucault’s notion of the specific intellectual (since the situation
requires totalization) and opens Sartre’s thought toward his relation to those
in radically different, colonial situations.
In What Is Literature? Sartre laid out his devotion to “engaged” writing,
which could be interpreted as a self-criticism of the abstractness of his own
early philosophy. He makes clear that the “author is in a situation,” as is the
largely bourgeois reading public.7 Despite the limitations this might conceiv-
ably entail, Sartre nevertheless feels comfortable claiming that reading
constitutes a movement toward “the peak of . . . freedom.”8 In conjunction
with this paradoxical privilege comes the seemingly less comprehensible role
that Sartre ascribes to the intellectual, through whose intervention the
reading public “will be led by the hand until he is made to see.”9 As Mark
Poster describes it: “The writer creates the public. . . . Sartre proclaims
himself philosopher-king, without the need to hold office.”10
Not surprisingly given his critique of humanism more generally, Foucault
takes issue with this view of intellectual production. In “Truth and Power,”
Foucault attacks the traditional role of the universal intellectual:

For a long period, the “left” intellectual spoke and was acknowledged the right
of speaking in the capacity of master of truth and justice. He was heard, or
purported to make himself heard, as the spokesman of the universal. . . . Just as
the proletariat, by the necessity of its historical situation, is the bearer of the
universal (but . . . barely conscious of itself as such), so the intellectual, through
his moral, theoretical, and political choice, aspires to be the bearer of this
universality in its conscious, elaborated form.11

In opposition to this “spokesman of the universal,” Foucault proposes, or

rather claims to document the historical rise of an alternative: the “specific”
intellectual who works “within specific sectors, at the precise points where
their own conditions of life or work situate them.” This role has the advan-
tage of providing intellectuals with “a much more immediate and concrete
awareness of struggles,” and moreover “makes it possible, if not to integrate,
132 George Ciccariello-Maher

at least to rearticulate categories which were previously kept separate.”12 In

both the positive claim that “intellectuals have actually been drawn closer
to the proletariat and the masses” and the negative worry that such an intel-
lectual “serves the interests of the state and capital,” Foucault recognizes and
encourages a “shifting [of] the level of analysis to situations in daily life in
which the intellectual function is closely bound in practice to the audi-
ence.”13 While this effort to “situate” the intellectual might seem to
complement the existentialist emphasis on the situation, the contours of
Foucault’s debate with Sartre reveal their fundamental divergence with
regard to intellectual totalization.
This divergence comes into view once we recognize that, while there is an
immense value in Foucault’s critique, to direct it at Sartre implies the latter’s
ignorance to such issues, and thus the argument is a bit of a straw man. In
What Is Literature? Sartre had indeed stressed that “Literature . . . mani-
fests the totality of the human condition,” but this position was emphatically
not a normative one. Rather, the imperative to speak in terms of totality is
dictated by circumstance, as Sartre continues immediately by emphasizing
that, “every day we must take sides.”14 The need to totalize—which means,
for Sartre, to seek a universal view—results precisely from the existential
emphasis on the need to make decisions from within given situations, and
the representation of totality should be interpreted as the specifically intel-
lectual imperative arising from the situation, the manner in which the
situation impinges on theoretical work. The relation between the situation
in which the author finds herself and the imperative to take a total view is
explained by Poster, who argues that for Sartre, humans are effectively
totalizing beings, whose perceptions (the unification of a field of external
elements) and actions (choosing from a field of options) entail a total view.
It falls to the theorist, then, to do the same in the sphere of knowledge, and
such theoretical totalizations are as a result necessarily imperfect and contex-
tual.15 Hence totalization, for Sartre, has both an ontological and
epistemological moment—pertaining to the “perceiver” and the “conscious
actor”—and it is the latter that informs the imperative toward intellectual
totalization.16
We can therefore see that Sartre approached the equation of knowledge
and power not in ignorance (as had Heidegger), and not through evasion
(as would Foucault with the specific intellectual) but rather, as Neil Levy
explains, “Sartre enters into . . . doubles [i.e., oppositions] lucidly.” He hangs
on to contradiction and refuses facile reconciliation, because it is only in
this way that thought and action can move forward. For Levy, Foucault’s
own insistence on maintaining a distance between the transcendental or
totalizing and the empirical largely explains his “inability to produce a truly
political style of thought.” Sartre’s totalizing imperative proceeds, then, by
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 133

holding the universal and the particular in tension, in full knowledge of the
risks involved but equally aware of the impossibility of avoiding these risks
and the political dangers that attempts to do so would entail. In Levy’s
words, “We must jump feet first into the doubles; there must be an
unthought without possibility of total clarity.”17
By contrast, Poster identifies a number of problems with Foucault’s
formulation of the specific intellectual, and two interest me here. First,
Foucault failed to live up to the situatedness of the specific intellectual by
refusing to accept the particularity of his own voice, manifesting instead a
clear preference for anonymity. As a result, he ends up embracing univer-
sality “as a cloaked disguise” or, as Poster nicely puts it, “hiding in an
epistemological closet.”18 This first difficulty links with a more serious
second one, which Poster identifies as a logical contradiction: Foucault’s own
negation remains on the level of the universal, since it attacks in the broadest
of manners any and all who invoke the universal. As a result,

Foucault himself represents the totality when he denounces totalizing posi-

tions. . . . Foucault’s statements about the universal intellectual are themselves
universal, and his theory of the specific intellectual is a general theory of the
intellectual. . . . Foucault is implicitly totalizing the situation. Taking a posi-
tion against totalization, he incurs a totalizing statement.19

Put more bluntly: “One cannot avoid the problems of the universal intellec-
tual simply by negating that figure,” and it is in this difficulty that we are
led to realize the degree to which Foucault’s own efforts provide support
for Sartre’s argument for totalization.20
Foucault’s own development, moreover, indicated his recognition of the
difficulty of this position. In the essay “What is Enlightenment?” presented
at Berkeley shortly before his death, Foucault signals a change of heart
regarding the flight from the authorial position:

I think that the Enlightenment, as a set of political, economic, social, institu-

tional, and cultural events on which we still depend in large part, constitutes a
privileged domain for analysis. . . . We must try to proceed with an analysis of
ourselves as beings who are historically determined, to a certain extent, by the
Enlightenment. Such an analysis [should be] . . . oriented . . . toward what is not
or is no longer indispensable for the constitution of ourselves as autonomous
subjects.21

Foucault’s later work comes to emphasize the critical ethos of the Enlight-
enment as a positive basis for critique, thereby demonstrating the insuffi-
ciency of his own earlier positions vis-à-vis Sartre, be they that of the specific
134 George Ciccariello-Maher

intellectual or the absent author. It is in this period—and especially with the

second and third volumes of The History of Sexuality—that Foucault would
come to emphasize the constitution of the self “as a work of art.”22 Given
Foucault’s return to this understanding of the subject, it is perhaps unsur-
prising that his aesthetic vision parallels that of Sartre, who had argued ear-
lier that “the moral choice is comparable to the construction of a work of
art” in its lack of a priori guidance.23 This should not imply, however, that
Foucault’s later phase constitutes a recognition of the need for a universal
intellectual. While this move may be interpreted as a gesture in the direction
of totalization, this gesture remains purely inductive, deriving its legitimacy
from “historical repetition.”24 In Foucault’s words, the phenomena studied by
the intellectual only “have their generality, in the sense that they have con-
tinued to recur up to our time. . . . [This is] the way to analyze questions of
general import in their historically unique form.”25
Before turning to an analysis of the gaze, it is necessary to briefly high-
light the fact that Poster’s analysis of Foucault’s contradiction stops here,
deeming the difficulty of the specific intellectual an “aporia” and suggesting
the advantages of Sartre’s schema.26 This approach is indicative of a trend in
the work of scholars of the Sartre-Foucault debate, whose approach consists
of little more than folding intellectual history onto itself, analyzing
Foucault’s response to Sartre and then proceeding to utilize the latter in an
effort to resolve the shortcomings and the aporias of the former.27 I hope to
do something different, showing that while it was Sartre (and to a lesser
degree Foucault, through his reconsideration of intellectual totalization)
who pointed the way toward resolution of these difficulties, Sartre’s devel-
opment toward a deeper understanding of the situation of the European
intellectual, and thereby of the implications of totalization, was spurred on
and prefigured by Fanon. Neither Sartre nor Foucault would complete the
task, as probably neither was properly equipped to have done so alone. To
clarify what some non-European existentialists see as the internal limits of
European philosophy, and thereby what sets their view of humanism apart
from the pejorative use of the term, I will first consider in detail the role
played by the gaze in Sartre, Foucault, and Frantz Fanon.

From Sartre to Fanon: The Materiality

of the European Gaze
For both Sartre and Foucault, the gaze or the look of the Other constitutes
subjectivity, and for Sartre in Being and Nothingness, this alter-subjectivity
constitutes objectivity. Such objectivity, however, is founded on a sort of
perspectivalism, as it is impossible for me to grasp the world through the
subjectivity of the other. There is a distinctly negative feel about Sartre’s
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 135

early formulation, as the Other represents “an object which has stolen the
world from me.”28 But this negativity is not at its fullest until the Other
turns her look to me, at which point I become an object at the very moment
that I realize the subjectivity of the Other. Our two subjectivities slide past
one another, existing in a subject/object relationship that, while not being
symmetrical at any given moment, is in the words of Levy “infinitely
reversible” and as such always at least potentially symmetrical.29 Or put
another way, there exists a diachronic symmetry between myself and the
other, which is made possible by the reversibility of the subject-object rela-
tion. This reversibility is perhaps best expressed in Sartre’s discussion of “the
Jew” near the end of Being and Nothingness: “If . . . it pleases me to consider
the antisemites as pure objects, then my being-a-Jew disappears immedi-
ately to give place to the simple consciousness (of) being a free, unqualifiable
transcendence.”30 “The Jew” remains—in this early formulation—free to
nihilate the Other, and is thereby free in the full sense of the word.
Foucault similarly associates the gaze with a simultaneous subjectification-
objectification, although his approach is historical, not ontological.31 In The
Birth of the Clinic, as Levy has observed, Foucault chronicles the invention of
the object of medical knowledge through the disappearance of the medical
subject in the autopsy: gazing upon death serves as “the concrete a priori of
medical experience.”32 It was only through such a detour into absence that, in
Foucault’s words, “Western man could constitute himself in his own eyes as
an object of science.”33 Discipline and Punish paints a similar picture of the
creation of the criminal subject-object through the gaze, but this time it is the
gaze of the Panopticon, and “it is the fact of being constantly seen . . . that
maintains the disciplined individual in his subjection.”34 As Levy correctly
points out, Foucault concretizes and historicizes the gaze, attributing it not to
an abstract Other, but to the “already ‘encoded’ eye” of the doctor, prison
guard, or teacher, an “authorized” gaze “in which field and gaze are bound
together by codes of knowledge.”35 Hence, “Foucault brings to the analysis of
the gaze a concreteness lacking in Sartre [in Being and Nothingness]. . . . The
subject/object relation is a power-relation, and as such is not infinitely
reversible.”36 Moreover, Discipline and Punish shows how the gaze can
“become congealed in architecture and in the structures of certain forms of
knowledge,” or as Martin Jay put it in a passage which is exaggerated but
illuminating: “the Panopticon, with its hidden and invisible God, was an
architectural embodiment of the most paranoid of Sartrean fantasies.”37
However, this double move—to a gaze expressed through power relations,
and then through the material coagulation of those relations—was twice pre-
figured, first by Sartre and earlier by Fanon.
Levy correctly identifies the first of these prefigurations, noting that in the
move from the clinic to the Panopticon, in which the gaze is “depersonalized”
136 George Ciccariello-Maher

and “becomes more an effect of architecture than of individual persons[,] . . .

Foucault follows the same trajectory as had Sartre before him,” as the look
of Being and Nothingness would give way to the “practico-inert” of The
Critique of Dialectical Reason.38 But such a view, concerned as it is with
emphasizing the compatibility of Foucault and Sartre, remains blinkered as
to the source and stimulus for that shift within the work of the latter. From
the infinitely reversible gaze of 1943, Sartre’s theory would undergo a long
and drawn-out transformation, during the course of which Fanon’s influence
would be paramount.39 Specifically, this transformation would take the form
of a double shift: First, in shifting from the European gaze to the autonomy
of revolutionary violence, Sartre would come to recognize the emergence of
a new decolonial subject; second, in shifting from racism to colonialism,
Sartre would move from the individual manifestation of that European gaze
to its collective, material manifestation, thereby coming to place a proper
emphasis on the structure standing opposite the newly recognized revolu-
tionary subject.

From the European Gaze to Revolutionary Violence

The first gesture of this shift occurs between 1944 and 1946, during which
time Sartre adds to his earlier discussion of “the Jew” (with reference to an
abstract Third) the presence of a more concrete and ubiquitous Third: the
Christian or non-Jew. He argues that “even in their most intimate gatherings
the Jews could say of the non-Jew what St. John Perse said of the sun: ‘He is
not named but his presence is among us.’ ”40 Not only is the Christian gaze
ever-present, but Sartre even suggests at this point that the belief that Jews
can eliminate such a gaze represents little more than a “ruse . . . of flight”
which is “proper to the inauthentic Jew.”41 Moreover, while the reversibility
of the gaze remains central in Sartre’s 1948 “Black Orpheus,” it is not difficult
to see how different this gaze had become since Being and Nothingness.
While the gaze remained “reversible,” it was only in the limited sense sug-
gested in Antisemite and Jew: the oppressed have no power to nihilate
through their gaze and can only force an ethical crisis onto the oppressors
through the potential shock of reversal. That is, the gaze can be reversed, but
the effects of that reversal are not material. Moreover, and relatedly, the audi-
ence remains largely white, and hence this reversal is the moment when “our
gaze comes back to our own eyes”: “When you removed the gag that was
keeping these black mouths shut, what were you hoping for? That they would
sing your praises?”42 The revolutionary violence of the oppressed remained,
for the Sartre of 1948, circumscribed in world-historic terms by the European
gaze. It is therefore of little surprise that Hegel would weigh heavily upon
Sartre’s text, and this is where Fanon would attack most forcefully.
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 137

In Black Skin, White Masks, Fanon addresses Sartre’s conceptualization of

the gaze, offering a critique on two fronts: against the essentialism of the
negritude movement, and against Sartre’s simultaneous endorsement of that
movement and its inscription within Eurocentric world history.43 In “Black
Orpheus,” Sartre had criticized Senghor for mixing the concrete particularity
of race with the universal abstract category of class, arguing that “negritude
appears as the minor term of a dialectical progression . . . [which is] insuffi-
cient by itself.”44 But Fanon counters that “the dialectic that brings necessity
into the foundation of my freedom drives me out of myself. . . . I am not a
potentiality of something. I am wholly what I am. I do not have to look for
the universal.”45 Fanon, moreover, criticizes Sartre for attempting to “Hell-
enize” negritude by “making an Orpheus out of . . . th[e] Negro who is
looking for the universal.”46 Behind both passages lies Fanon’s objection, less
with the dialectic itself than with the fact that Sartre claims to know the out-
come in advance, and that this outcome is European.47
To put it in terms of our earlier discussion, Sartre’s totalization remains
bound to Eurocentrism, because he had still not fully digested the implica-
tions of his own “situation.” Fanon sternly reminds Sartre that all situations
are not created equal: Sartre’s mistake is rooted in his conception of the
gaze of the Other. Fanon argues that

Sartre had forgotten that the Negro suffers in his body quite differently from
the white man. . . . Though Sartre’s speculations on the existence of the Other
may be correct . . . their application to a black consciousness proves fallacious
. . . because the white man is not only The Other but also the master, whether
real or imaginary.48

Hence, while Fanon’s understanding of the gaze might seem compatible with
Sartre’s position in Being and Nothingness—in which oppressed groups are
constituted by the gaze of a “master” or oppressor—we see the difference
when we consider the black body. Black skin is “overdetermined from
without” and so just as Fanon criticizes those who would conflate anti-
semitism with Negrophobia, this same statement can be seen as a preemptive
critique of the insufficiency of Foucault’s emphasis on the medical subject
and the criminal, who despite being defined with relation to an imposed
nature are not forced to wear that nature epidermally.49
Fanon emphasizes the concreteness and historical ladenness of the gaze,
which is asymmetrical in terms of power, but which invokes not only a
history of classification, but that of a colonial classification based on pheno-
type.50 For Fanon, this historical classification—the Manicheanism of black
and white — is the primary source for the rebellion of the oppressed, for
“black zeal”:
138 George Ciccariello-Maher

For once, that born Hegelian had forgotten that consciousness has to lose itself
in the night of the absolute. . . . A consciousness committed to experience . . .
has to be ignorant, of the essences and determinations of its being. . . . Orphée
Noir is a date in the intellectualization of the experience of being black.51

While Fanon would not fully delineate his position regarding the violence
of the oppressed until later, it is already visible in embryonic form in this
notion of “black zeal.”
Largely as a result of Fanon’s 1952 critique of his position from the
perspective of both racial overdetermination and “black zeal,” Sartre would
revise his position on the dialectic, and he would do so with regard to the
importance of the violence of the oppressed. In his 1961 preface to Fanon’s
The Wretched of the Earth, Sartre writes energetically: “Will we recover?
Yes. For violence, like Achilles’ lance, can heal the wounds that it has
inflicted,” adding crucially that “this is the end of the dialectic.”52 The
violence of the oppressed, in accordance with Fanon’s emphatic critique, was
now granted full autonomy to construct a new humanism (although Sartre
would refrain from identifying the latter by name, referring instead to
“humanity”).
Moreover, Sartre moves decisively beyond the European gaze by granting
full autonomy to the revolutionary periphery as the site of this violence. The
dialectic no longer relied on the ethical crisis that would befall Europe when
the gaze is returned:

Europeans, you must open this book. . . . After a few steps in the darkness you
will see strangers gathered around a fire; come close, and listen, for they are
talking of the destiny they will mete out to your trading centers and to the
hired soldiers who defend them. They will see you, perhaps, but they will go
on talking among themselves, without even lowering their voices.53

Sartre is not unaware of his own status as a member of the European bour-
geoisie, and this recognition of his own position encourages his deference to
Fanon and others; it is for this reason that he would come to be known as a
preface writer.54 That is, through Sartre’s simultaneous recognition of his
own situation and the need to totalize he defers — in the role of preface
writer — to decolonial thought. In a striking and largely unrecognized
display of self-criticism, Sartre even belies that role by emphasizing that “this
book [i.e., Wretched] had not the slightest need of a preface.”55 Indeed,
when he begins his preface, it is by correcting his earlier position on the
agency of the periphery by, first, abandoning the idea that it was the Euro-
peans who “removed the gag” for the anticolonial reality in which “the
mouths opened by themselves.”56 Second, Sartre explicitly recognizes
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 139

Fanon’s earlier critique of his tendency to “Hellenize” blacks by attacking

Europe for having “hellenized the Asian; she had created a new breed, the
Greco-Latin Negroes.”57 Put in different terms, Sartre’s simultaneous recog-
nition of the implications of his own situation and the need for intellectual
totalization leads him even to the point of deferring that representation of
totality to the revolutionary periphery.
If Sartre’s deference to Fanon were not clear enough in his responses to
the latter’s 1952 critique, we can also discern a similar deference to the text
in question, The Wretched of the Earth. The grammar of Sartre’s preface
makes this glaringly obvious, since at the crucial point in his essay — at
which historical development collides with the present—Sartre effectively
stops talking. And if we insist on reading Sartre’s own words, focusing on
the interstices between quotations, we get the same impression:

1961. Listen: . . . The tone is new. Who dares to speak thus? It is an African, a
man from the Third World. . . . An ex-native, French-speaking, bends that
language to new requirements, makes use of it, and speaks to the colonized
only. . . . [H]is aim is to teach them to beat us at our own game.58

When Sartre breaks from Fanon’s words, it is only to attack those Frenchmen
who point to the nation’s decline in the hopes of stimulating a rebirth. This
gesture is then followed through by a critique of the French Left which cul-
minates in a statement which, like the rest, applies equally well to Sartre him-
self: While “the more farseeing among us will be, in the last resort, ready to
admit this duty and this end”—that is, to eliminate colonialism—it is never-
theless the case that “our worthiest souls contain racial prejudice.”59
Prompted explicitly by Fanon’s critique, Sartre had passed from the purely
idealistic capacity for the oppressed to reverse the gaze of the oppressor, to
a recognition of the historically constructed limits to that reversibility that
nevertheless inscribed the oppressed within the European gaze, and finally
on to granting full autonomy to revolutionary violence and the alter-
humanism that Fanon believed this violence would yield. In this way, Sartre’s
development carried him from an unrealistic idealism, to the repressive
weight of materialism, and on to a properly Fanonian dialectic.

From Abstract Gaze to Colonial Structure

In parallel with this shift from the gaze of the oppressor to the violence of
the oppressed, Sartre would shift his attention from racism per se to the
structures that supported it as, “in the late 1950s . . . the analysis of racism
was united with that of colonialism.”60 This, again, followed largely from
Fanon’s critiques. Social structures—which for Fanon consisted largely of
140 George Ciccariello-Maher

colonial administrations and the colonial imaginary they produced—force

us to turn to what he called “sociogeny.” In Black Skin, White Masks, he
writes that despite the seemingly psychoanalytic character of his work, “the
effective disalienation of the black man entails an immediate recognition of
social and economic realities,” and he adds that

Freud insisted that the individual factor be taken into account through psycho-
analysis. He substituted for a phylogenetic theory the ontogenetic perspective.
It will be seen that the black man’s alienation is not an individual question.
Beside phylogeny and ontogeny there stands sociogeny.61

This principle is intimately related to Fanon’s own reformulation and trans-

gression of phenomenology and psychoanalysis, which he deemed
insufficient to confront colonial structures, the coagulation of the racist
gaze.62 Sociogeny is the idea that in an abnormal and pathological society,
one can do no good by attempting to normalize the victims, and attention
needs, on the contrary, to be turned directly to the totality of social struc-
tures, to transform the latter through revolutionary activity.
Sociogeny, then, can be seen as a simultaneous rejection of Foucault’s
specific intellectual (who recognizes structures but fails to confront them)
and Sartre’s early understanding of the totalizing writer (who seems slightly
oblivious to those structures): Fanon’s is a rejection per se of the sufficiency
of intellectualism. A shift in the revolutionary subject — from European
intellectual to decolonial guerrilla—implies a concomitant shift in how we
understand both the situation and the totalizing imperative. Once the situa-
tion in question is colonialism and we are divested of all idealistic hopes that
the European bourgeoisie will act to end it, totalization moves from the
Salon to the improvised battlefield of decolonial war. This element of
Fanon’s philosophy is perhaps best expressed in his 1956 resignation from
the Algerian psychiatric clinic in Blida-Joinville to join the FLN resistance
fighters:

If psychiatry is the medical technique that aims to enable man no longer to be

a stranger to his environment, I owe it to myself to affirm that the Arab, perma-
nently an alien in his own country, lives in a state of absolute
depersonalization. . . . The social structure existing in Algeria was hostile to
any attempt to put the individual back where he belonged. . . . The function of
a social structure is to set up institutions to serve man’s needs. A society that
drives its members to desperate solutions is a non-viable society, a society to be
replaced. . . . There comes a time when silence becomes dishonesty. . . . And the
conclusion is the determination not to despair of man, in other words, of
myself.63
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 141

Once again, Sartre would take his cues largely from Fanon—cues that were
certainly reinforced by other thinkers and by Sartre’s general intellectual-
political context—but would do so in line with his own views regarding the
imperative for intellectual totalization.64
In his introduction to Albert Memmi’s 1957 The Colonizer and the Colo-
nized, Sartre critiques Memmi (as well as Sartre’s own former self) for failing
to recognize that “racism is ingrained in actions, institutions, and the nature
of colonialist methods of production and exchange.”65 This argument fore-
shadowed the elaboration of seriality and the practico-inert in Sartre’s
Critique of Dialectical Reason, in which the link between colonialism and
racism would be formulated in the following terms:

[C]olonialism, as a material system in the practico-inert field of colonisation

. . . produced its own Idea in its very development. . . . Colonialism defines the
exploited as eternal because it constitutes itself as an eternity of exploita-
tion. . . . In this form of alterity, it becomes racism. The essence of racism . . . is
that it is not a system of thoughts which might be false or pernicious. . . . It is
not a thought at all. It can never be formulated. . . . In reality, racism is the colo-
nial interest lived as a link of all the colonialists of the colony through the
serial flight of alterity.66

Here, in accordance with Fanon’s turn to sociogeny, the primary object of

inquiry is no longer the racist attitude—as had arguably been the case in
Antisemite and Jew—but rather the coagulation of prior praxis (what Sartre
deems the “practico-inert”) in colonial structures which only then
“produc[es] itself in the language of the colonists.”67 The causality is
reversed, and the racism of the individual comes to be seen as the result
rather than the basis of colonialism. Finally, perhaps, the Fanonian prob-
lematic is most clearly manifested in Sartre’s 1964 Rome lecture, in which
what had earlier been conceptualized as “simply a form of bad faith attrib-
utable in that instance to the slaveholder, was twenty-five years later
analyzed in terms of the inevitable violence of the colonial system,” and the
question of racism had become “the resolution of the contradiction
embodied in colonial practice.”68
While Robert Bernasconi offers a nuanced reading of Sartre’s develop-
ment that follows the broad contours outlined above, it is important to
emphasize that his account requires supplementation in one crucial aspect,
which is directly relevant to my argument: Bernasconi is at pains to indicate
Fanon’s reverence for Sartre, yet he presents Sartre’s intellectual development
(toward Fanon) as though it occurred autonomously.69 While Fanon was
certainly not Sartre’s only influence, Bernasconi’s argument has the effect of
obscuring all influences, both individual and contextual. His argument that
142 George Ciccariello-Maher

Sartre’s position in the preface was “less vulnerable to Fanon’s criticism” and
that “Sartre and Fanon were in closer agreement in 1961 than they had
been some ten years earlier” prevents Fanon’s influence on Sartre from being
visible.70 Moreover, Bernasconi recognizes the importance of Sartre qua
preface writer, emphasizing Sartre’s deference to Richard Wright’s capacity
to “complete Sartre’s project of showing the oppressor to himself,” but the
difference with respect to the present argument is twofold: first, in his view
the project conspicuously remains “Sartre’s,” and second (and more impor-
tantly), this deference to Wright remains within Sartre’s earlier phase of
“returning the gaze,” prior to his granting autonomy to revolutionary
violence. Bernasconi neglects Sartre’s deference to Fanon during this latter
phase.71
This neglect is reproduced in an essay which is ostensibly both more
focused on and more sympathetic to Fanon, as Bernasconi suggests that
Sartre’s preface was “faithful to Fanon” before immediately and sugges-
tively reversing this formulation by predicating this faith upon the fact that
“Fanon’s brief analysis was itself in full agreement with Sartre’s own
account.”72 Here, Bernasconi claims that “Fanon’s decisive insight was
borrowed explicitly from Sartre.”73 The question is not whether or not
Fanon cites Sartre on the “insight” that colonialists paradoxically cannot
eliminate the colonized (he does), nor even whether or not this point was
“decisive” within Fanon’s framework (which is dubious).74 What is crucial is
that Bernasconi misses Fanon’s influence on Sartre, erasing the possibility
that Fanon’s 1952 critique (which Sartre read closely) had any impact on the
later Critique of Dialectical Reason.75
Though Bernasconi raises the possibility that Fanon influenced Sartre’s
reformulation of the dialectic, he discounts his influence, arguing that “it is
clear from some of Sartre’s other writings that he already understood the
unifying aspect of violence.”76 But, I think this too readily equates the end
of the dialectic with the “unifying aspect of violence,” an error compounded
by a quick reference to the Critique (which appears too late to prove
Bernasconi’s point), and further by his reference to a 1952 essay which
equates violence and humanism, but does so with reference to a strike by
French workers (thereby revealing the degree to which this essay remained
within the frame of “black Orpheus,” in which the Western working class
owned the “end of the dialectic”). Despite Bernasconi’s “deference to Fanon”
regarding the content of new humanism, it appears that Bernasconi’s Fanon
would only be able to provide that content by having drawn upon the pages
of Sartre’s Critique.77 Instead, I have emphasized that Fanon’s influence on
Sartre was significant, rather than only the other way around.
This discussion of Sartre’s development toward a more Fanonian socio-
genic perspective brings us back full circle to Foucault and the evasion of
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 143

totalization embodied by his specific intellectual. While we have seen that

Foucault shifted drastically away from his earlier emphasis on the “specific”
intellectual, his later approach remained purely inductive, and so while the
intellectual was able to totalize, this could only be the totalization of the
Owl of Minerva. We are left, then, to wonder about the political implica-
tions of this gesture. In a passage too often overlooked, Edward Said
addresses the counterposition of Fanon and Foucault, “both of whom stress
the unavoidable problematic of immobilization and confinement at the
centre of the Western system of knowledge and discipline,” but whose
responses to that problematic could not differ more starkly:

Fanon’s work programmatically seeks to treat colonial and metropolitan soci-

eties together, as discrepant but related identities, while Foucault’s work moves
further and further away from serious consideration of social wholes, focusing
instead upon the individual. . . . [I]gnoring the imperial context of his own
theories, Foucault seems actually to represent an irresistible colonizing move-
ment that paradoxically fortifies the prestige of both the lonely individual
scholar and the system that contains him. Both . . . have Hegel, Marx, Freud,
Nietzsche, Canguihelm, and Sartre in their heritage, yet only Fanon presses
that formidable arsenal into antiauthoritarian service. Foucault . . . swerves
away from politics entirely.78

For Said, Fanon’s insistent totalization makes him a profoundly radical

thinker, while Foucault’s rejection of the intellectual need to address such
“social wholes” allows his own situation—his “imperial context”—to inter-
vene and outweigh the critical potential of his philosophy.
Foucault, then, succumbs to the “unavoidable problematic of immobi-
lization,” neglecting the fact that anything said from Europe, or more
specifically anything said by an influential European philosopher, inevitably
runs the risk of being filtered through colonial difference, and is thereby self-
totalizing, to be applied to such “social wholes” regardless of Foucault’s
intent. Foucault’s fear of the negative effects of the totalizing gaze blinds him
to the fact that, once inversely totalized, this fear would manifest as a
supremely dismissive European gaze that would imperially erase other histo-
ries and other humanisms. In his oft-repeated clarification—“I am speaking
here only of Western intellectuals”—Foucault wrongly assumes, first, that
one can speak of Western intellectuals in a vacuum (that is, outside a history
of colonialism), and second, that his statements will actually be interpreted
as provincially as he would hope.79 Ironically, then, while Foucault would
emphasize the materiality of the panoptical gaze, he would fail to effec-
tively portray the materiality of his own gaze—his own situation and his
own perspective—due to his denial of the totalizing imperative.
144 George Ciccariello-Maher

Sartre, on the other hand, by taking his cues from Fanon and the revolu-
tionary periphery—even to the point of altering his position on the dialectic
of world history—was able to move forward convincingly. This is not meant
to imply that this divergence between Sartre and Foucault was at all acci-
dental: to the contrary, Sartre’s openness to Fanon derives directly from the
“lucidity” with which he approached the totalizing imperative of the intel-
lectual, a position that was in turn rooted in the existentialist emphasis on
the situation. It was in the painful recognition of the double materiality of
the abstract and intellectual gaze that Sartre would excel and, spurred by
Fanon, provide significant insights into the limits of European thought.
More precisely, while the Sartre of Being and Nothingness failed to recog-
nize the materiality of the gaze per se, by 1947 (What Is Literature?) Sartre
had explicitly recognized the materiality of his own intellectual gaze, and
this recognition was arguably rooted in the basic assumptions of existen-
tialism itself regarding the situation. Sartre’s position on the intellectual
would then serve as the vital conduit through which Fanon’s influence would
manifest itself, dragging the former beyond Europe.
In acknowledging the importance of Sartre’s thought in this manner, we
are immediately led to interrogate the implications of such a gesture. If
Sartre could follow in the footsteps of Fanon, what does this tell us about
the limits of European philosophy? In the next section, I look anew at the
pathways of an alter-humanism opened by the work of Fanon, Sartre, and
Césaire, pathways that no longer reinscribe philosophical agency within its
traditional European locus.

Césaire, Fanon, and Alter-Humanism

As mentioned earlier, the disagreement between Sartre and Foucault on the
subject of intellectual totalization was embedded within a broader debate on
the merits of humanism, and it is therefore unsurprising that many critiques
of intellectual Eurocentrism—especially those of an existentialist bent—
are couched in terms of the purported humanist/antihumanist opposition.
As will be seen, both Fanon and his teacher, the negritude poet Aimé Césaire,
take European critiques of traditional humanism—such as those offered by
Foucault—as an occasion to critique formulations like that of the specific
intellectual, showing its complicity with both the classical humanism it
opposes and the fascism from which it draws its prime examples.
Sartre’s own later strategic repudiation of the term notwithstanding, he
offers a crucial distinction between two types of humanism. The classical
version, which “upholds man as the end-in-itself and as the supreme value
. . . according to the most distinguished deeds of certain men,” is thereby
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 145

“absurd . . . since man is still to be determined.” Moreover, beyond mere

absurdity, Sartre sees a clear danger in such notions, as “the cult of humanity
ends in Comtian humanism, shut-in upon itself, and—this must be said—
in Fascism.” Despite this, and in accordance with the importance we have
seen Sartre place on the need to seek a total view, he rejects any suggestion
that classical humanism exhausts the potential for humanism more gener-
ally, since “there is another sense of the word, of which the fundamental
meaning is this: Man is all the time outside of himself: it is in projecting and
losing himself beyond himself that he makes man exist.”80 Sartre’s distinc-
tion points in the direction also pursued by Césaire, who seconds the link to
fascism but does so more explicitly through a two-pronged attack on the
coagulated architecture of colonialism and the specific intellectual whose
raison d’être it is to uncritically philosophize from the wrong end of that
architecture.
Césaire seeks to teach “the very distinguished, very humanistic, very
Christian bourgeois of the twentieth century that without his being aware of
it, he has a Hitler inside of him, that Hitler inhabits him, that Hitler is his
demon.”81 Like Sartre, Césaire deems this “sordidly racist” ideology
“pseudo-humanism” and distinguishes it from the potential for a substantive
humanism, noting that, “at the very time when it most often mouths the
word, the West has never been further from being able to live a true
humanism — a humanism made to the measure of the world.”82 This is
because it is precisely when faced with historical adversity that the existen-
tial condition makes itself known, and despite correctly diagnosing the ills of
humanism, Europeans are still on the winning end of history—having only
recently tasted for themselves the dangers of pseudo-humanism—and can
therefore take comfort in critique itself. In a strikingly prescient passage,
Césaire issues a denunciation that can be productively interpreted as a
preemptive critique of Foucault’s simultaneous rejection of humanism and
intellectual totalization:

Therefore, comrade, you will hold as enemies—loftily, lucidly, consistently—

not only sadistic governors and greedy bankers, not only prefects who torture
and colonists who flog . . . but likewise and for the same reason . . . goitrous
academics, wreathed in dollars and stupidity, ethnographers who go in for
metaphysics . . . chattering intellectuals born stinking out of the thigh of Niet-
zsche . . . the hoodwinkers, the hoaxers, the hot-air artists, the humbugs, and
in general, all those who . . . try in diverse ways and by infamous diversions to
split up the forces of Progress—even if it means denying the very possibility
of Progress . . . all of them responsible, all hateful, all slave-traders, all hence-
forth answerable for the violence of revolutionary action.83
146 George Ciccariello-Maher

Is this metaphysical ethnographer Lévi-Strauss? Is this chattering Niet-

zschean Foucault himself? If so, Césaire does more than criticize their
passivity: He condemns them as collaborators.
This collaboration appears most unmistakably in Césaire’s argument that,
“at the end of formal humanism and philosophical renunciation, there is
Hitler.”84 Aside from the straightforward attempt to reorient interpreta-
tions of Nazism and fascism, what is most crucial in this passage for our
purposes is the explicit coupling of classical humanism with the “philo-
sophical renunciation” of the specific intellectual. Césaire, then, fully
recognizes the errors of what would most famously become the Foucauldian
formulation of the intellectual by emphasizing the implications of occupying
the situation of the European philosopher, and he adds the political charge
of collaboration with the colonial system to drive the point home. Moreover,
as we see in the passage above, the philosophical renunciation of the specific
intellectual is but a particular moment of a broader attack on progress, in
which the specific intellectual overlaps directly with the rejection of
humanism.
For Césaire, the denial of the potential for progress and philosophical
renunciation are more than collaboration through ignorance; they represent
an inversion of pseudo-humanism itself, and it is here that complicity is most
apparent. Those who deny progress, through their denial of an alternative
humanism, are performing the same universalizing move as the pseudo-
humanists and doing so from the same location: Europe. Such a denial is
intimately related to Foucault’s specific intellectual, since his aversion to
totalization made him unwilling or incapable of recognizing the universal-
izing implications of his privileged position as an influential European
philosopher. Just as empirical arguments for the specific intellectual are
generated in the core (Foucault, after all, consciously limited himself to
studying Western history) toward the end of dismissing all totalization, so
too are such arguments deployed to issue a universal dismissal of humanism.
Such a gesture, moreover, reveals a reliance on a Eurocentric notion of
“universal” that is derived in the history of Western philosophy precisely
through its opposition to the particular. According to Césaire, this notion of
the universal is ill-fitting for a humanity defined by particulars, and his
formulation of humanism rejects any zero-sum tradeoff between particu-
larity and the aspiration to a total understanding:

I’m not going to confine myself to some narrow particularism. But I don’t
intend either to become lost in a disembodied universalism. . . . I have a
different idea of a universal. It is a universal rich with all that is particular, rich
with all the particulars there are, the deepening of each particular, the coexis-
tence of them all.85
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 147

Césaire’s alter-humanism, then, can be productively interpreted as

embodying the resolution of the debate between Sartre and Foucault
regarding the role of the intellectual—one that emphasizes more than either
thinker the degree to which the situation of the European intellectual is a
dangerously blinkered one.
Fanon—whom we have already seen to be the central impetus for Sartre’s
own theoretical radicalization—speaks of pseudo-humanism in the same
terms as Césaire, but is more blunt regarding the inability of Europe to
solve its own problems: “Leave this Europe where they are never done
talking of Man, yet murder men wherever they find them. . . . Come, then,
comrades, the European game has finally ended; we must find something
different.”86 Humanism is formulated by Fanon as having been identified
by Europe as a goal, but is a goal which by definition cannot be resolved
from within Europe:

It is the question of the Third World starting a new history of Man, a history
which will have regard to the sometimes prodigious theses which Europe has
put forward, but which will also not forget Europe’s crimes, of which the
most horrible was committed in the heart of man, and consisted of the patho-
logical tearing away of his functions and the crumbling away of his unity.87

Europe had indeed discovered the question of universal humanism, but in

doing so had raised barriers to the resolution of that very problematic, chief
among which are colonialism and the superexploitation of the periphery, not
to mention the “crumbling” of the totalizing humanist project through the
uncritical celebration of the specific intellectual. By failing to confront these
issues directly, by failing to come to terms with his own situation as a Euro-
pean philosopher, Foucault imposed an insurmountable limitation on
himself, and this self-imposed limitation is the same limit that is internal to
European thought as a whole.
The humanism that emerges from Fanon’s oeuvre is, as has been often
noted, one which is self-consciously (and self-critically) open and unde-
fined, an empty space to be filled by radical thought and politics. But this is
not to imply that it lacks content: Quite to the contrary, we have seen the
axes along which Fanon’s critique of Sartre—and, by extension, of Euro-
pean philosophy—coalesced, and it is precisely those axes that (inversely)
constitute humanism. That is to say, Fanon’s humanism is not a fixed concept
to be thrust forward into history, but rather an idea, negatively defined
through critique of what it is not. First and foremost, Fanon’s humanism is
neither classical humanism nor radical antihumanism, but it takes its coor-
dinates largely from the shortcomings of both. Like the latter, it is resolutely
antiessentialist (the faulty translation of the title of the fifth chapter of Black
148 George Ciccariello-Maher

Skin, White Masks notwithstanding), and this is precisely the root of Fanon’s
struggle with Senghor’s negritude. 88 However, against radical antihu-
manism, Black Skin, White Masks eventually endorses a certain strategic
essentialism in the guise of “black zeal,” the strategic relevance of which
would expire by the time Fanon engaged in a harsher critique of negritude
a few years later.89
Fanon’s humanism retains a link between agency and situation, but
agency cannot be reduced to ontogenesis. The appeal to sociogeny is thus a
direct reply to the crimes of classical humanism (i.e., colonialism), one that
breaks equally with radical antihumanism and its crippling allergy to total-
ization. However, these coordinates—adopted through Fanon’s engagement
with European thought—are then radically transposed, and it is here that
we see the precise distinction between Sartre and Fanon. While Sartre’s
thought on the subject of colonialism was largely inspired and encouraged
by Fanon’s critiques—to paraphrase, he was led by the hand until he was
made to see — there was a clear limit beyond which Sartre could not
progress. While this limit is suggested in Sartre’s deference to Fanon, it effec-
tively exceeds that gesture: remember, after all, that Sartre remains silent on
humanism in his preface. Sartre could not will himself beyond the colonial
difference. It was not merely the case that Sartre had recognized his own
inability to formulate a new humanism: He was, until the very end, unable
to admit that such a thing could exist without the risk of a return to classical
humanism.90 The difference between Sartre’s radical European humanism
and Fanon’s alter-humanism of the periphery is most visible at the moment
when the former refuses to recognize its own existence, disavows itself.
Fanon’s position vis-à-vis colonial difference, on the other hand, bestowed
a significance on the autonomy of the revolutionary periphery which, while
nominally recognized by Sartre, was not in the end recognized for what it
was: a new, alter-humanism.91 Humanism, for Fanon, was to be approached
asymptotically through liberatory activity: historical struggles are the
“oxygen which creates and shapes a new humanity,” and hence Fanonian
humanism is perhaps most elaborately delineated in his discussions of the
Algerian Revolution, in which the veil, radio and medical technology, and
the family structure were all radically transformed in accordance with the
strategic needs of liberation, as a result of the fact that “independence
produces the spiritual and material conditions for the reconversion of
man.”92 In this way, Fanon’s “new humanism . . . is prefigured in the objec-
tives and methods of the conflict,” and these “objectives and methods” arose,
in Fanon’s context, as the two stages of the liberation: “During the colonial
period the people are called upon to fight against oppression; after national
liberation, they are called upon to fight against poverty, illiteracy, and under-
development.”93
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 149

In an era in which this second stage is far from complete, it is more crucial
than ever before to retain these negative coordinates of Fanonian humanism
in order to effectively combat the various mystifications that threaten our
understanding of the course of liberation.94 This analysis should be inter-
preted as a reminder that, above all, Fanonian humanism entails an
epistemological recognition of the situation of the intellectual that simulta-
neously recognizes the materiality of the European gaze and the need to
totalize and that, above all, remains open to correction both from Fanon
himself and from the demands of political struggles in the revolutionary
periphery.

Conclusion
We have seen that the European debate between Sartre and Foucault on the
intellectual offers especially potent insights into the foundations of Euro-
pean thought and the limits that those foundations impose. In this chapter
I have sought to show, first, that a central point of contention between
Sartre and Foucault—that of the totalizing imperative of the intellectual—
is crucial to the interpretation of these thinkers, due to both the fact that
Foucault would later admit the shortcomings of his earlier position and,
more importantly, because Sartre’s position on the intellectual would make
him more receptive to the influence of radical decolonial thought. Second,
I have shown that Sartre’s deference to Fanon then manifested as a recon-
ceptualization of the gaze, which came to recognize both the material
coagulation of the gaze in colonial structures and the concomitant imper-
ative to defer to those on the other end of the colonial difference, both
philosophically and politically. Finally, I have considered the insights that
Césaire and Fanon offer on the subject of the European intellectual, insights
that draw us into their respective formulations of an alter-humanism,
formulations that can be seen as resolving the aporias of the European
intellectual. Coming to terms with the epistemological implications of the
Sartre-Foucault debate on the intellectual thereby puts us in a better posi-
tion to reenter into a discussion of alter-humanism — which has
increasingly become a central reference point for contemporary radical and
revolutionary movements—without falling into the kindred errors of clas-
sical humanism and radical antihumanism, and moreover without the
temptation to neglect our own situation as privileged intellectuals whose
gaze carries a certain material weight. The “European game” is certainly as
consequential as it has always been, but its importance now—as it has been
historically—is largely measured in terms of its capacity to do harm, and
while we must be mindful of the situations it creates, we will get nowhere
by remaining trapped within it or mesmerized by it.
150 George Ciccariello-Maher

Notes
1. While I speak of “European” philosophy, my conclusions might equally apply,
with necessary adjustments, to much of what is commonly referred to as the
“West,” i.e., to former and present colonizers in opposition to the colonized.
2. On the colonial difference, see Walter D. Mignolo, “The Geopolitics of Knowl-
edge and the Colonial Difference,” The South Atlantic Quarterly 101.1
(Winter 2002): 57–96. While some thinkers—most notably Enrique Dussel—
argue that it is both possible and ethically necessary to begin from the
perspective of exteriority, this study implies that this necessity is equally episte-
mological.
3. Aimé Césaire, Discourse on Colonialism, trans. J. Pinkham (New York:
Monthly Review, 2000), 73.
4. This debate was not won by the merits of poststructuralism alone, and
thinkers like Foucault would eventually return to existentialist themes once
Sartre had been dispensed with.
5. Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness: A Phenomenological Essay on
Ontology, trans. H. Barnes (New York: Washington Square, 1956 [1943]),
408–409.
6. Ibid., 409.
7. Jean-Paul Sartre, What Is Literature? trans. B. Frechtman (New York: Wash-
ington Square, 1966 [1947]), 101.
8. Ibid., 187.
9. Ibid., 197.
10. Mark Poster, Critical Theory and Poststructuralism: In Search of a Context
(Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989), 45.
11. Foucault, “Truth and Power” [1976], in Paul Rabinow, ed., The Foucault
Reader (New York: Pantheon, 1984 [1983]), 67. We should bear in mind that in
this interview, Foucault makes clear that “I am speaking here only of Western
intellectuals” (69). I will discuss the importance of this clarification later.
12. Ibid., 68.
13. Ibid., 68; 72. Poster, Critical Theory and Poststructuralism, 48.
14. Sartre, What Is Literature? 192.
15. Mark Poster, Foucault, Marxism, and History: Mode of Production versus
Mode of Information (Cambridge: Polity, 1984), 22.
16. Ibid., 21.
17. Neil Levy, Being Up-To-Date: Foucault, Sartre, and Postmodernity (New
York: Peter Lang, 2001), 73–74, first emphasis added.
18. Poster, Foucault, Marxism, and History, 24. Poster, Critical Theory and Post-
structuralism, 51.
19. Poster, Critical Theory and Poststructuralism, 49.
20. Ibid., 50.
21. Michel Foucault, “What Is Enlightenment?” [1984] in Rabinow, The Foucault
Reader, 42–43.
22. Foucault, “On a Genealogy of Ethics: An Overview of Work in Progress,” in
Rabinow, The Foucault Reader, 351.
23. Jean-Paul Sartre, Existentialism and Humanism, trans. P. Mairet (London:
Methuen, 1948 [1946]), 48–49.
24. Poster, Critical Theory and Poststructuralism, 64–65.
25. Foucault, “What Is Enlightenment?” 49.
26. To his credit, however, Poster adds that such an aporia “cannot be dismissed as
a logical oddity without material effects.” Poster, Critical Theory and Post-
structuralism, 49, cf. 65.
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 151

27. This is equally the case with Neil Levy, and in a different way with Robert
Bernasconi. I will explore the implications of such undertakings later.
28. Sartre, Being and Nothingness, 343.
29. Levy, Being Up-To-Date, 78.
30. Sartre, Being and Nothingness, 674–75.
31. Levy, Being Up-To-Date, 79–80.
32. Ibid., 81–82. Michel Foucault, The Birth of the Clinic: An Archaeology of
Medical Perception, trans. A. M. Sheridan Smith (New York: Vintage, 1973),
196.
33. Foucault, The Birth of the Clinic, 197.
34. Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan
Sheridan (London: Penguin, 1986 [1975]), 187.
35. Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human
Sciences, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage, 1973 [1966]), xxi. See also
Levy, Being Up-To-Date, 82. Foucault, The Birth of the Clinic, 90.
36. Levy, Being Up-To-Date, 82.
37. Ibid., 83. Martin Jay, Downcast Eyes: The Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-
Century French Thought (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 410.
38. Ibid., 178 n.9.
39. See Robert Bernasconi, “Sartre’s Gaze Returned: The Transforming of the
Phenomenology of Racism,” Graduate Faculty Philosophy Journal 18.2
(1995): 201–21.
40. Jean-Paul Sartre, Antisemite and Jew, trans. G. Becker (New York: Schocken,
1948 [1946]), 102.
41. Ibid.
42. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Black Orpheus” [1948], in “What Is Literature?” and Other
Essays, trans. B. Frechtman (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1988), 291.
43. For a discussion of both sides of this critique, see Robert Bernasconi, “The
Assumption of Negritude: Aimé Césaire, Frantz Fanon, and the Vicious Circle
of Racial Politics,” parallax 8.2 (2002), 69–83.
44. Sartre, “Black Orpheus,” 326. This statement should be contrasted with Being
and Nothingness, in which Sartre analyzed both race and class with regard to
the look. See Bernasconi, “Sartre’s Gaze Returned,” 218 n.54.
45. Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, trans. C. L. Markmann (New York:
Grove, 1962 [1952]), 135.
46. Ibid., 186.
47. This is not to imply, however, that the two had the same understanding of the
dialectic. See, e.g., Lou Turner, “On the Difference between the Fanonian and
Hegelian Dialectic of Lordship and Bondage,” in L. Gordon, T. D. Sharpley-
Whiting, and R. White, eds., Fanon: A Critical Reader (Malden, Mass.:
Blackwell, 1996), 134–51.
48. Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, 138. However, as Bernasconi makes clear,
this seeming critique is based upon a Sartrean understanding of race.
Bernasconi, “The Assumption of Negritude,” 75.
49. Ibid., 116; 157.
50. On this, see Aníbal Quijano, “The Coloniality of Power and Social Classification,”
trans. G. Ciccariello-Maher, forthcoming in R. Grosfoguel, N. Maldonado-Torres,
and J. David Saldivar, eds., Coloniality, Transmodernity, and Border Thinking. Spanish
original available in Journal of World-Systems Research 11.2 (2000): 342–86. Avail-
able online at http://jwsr.ucr.edu.
51. Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, 133–34.
152 George Ciccariello-Maher
52. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Preface,” in Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans.
C. Farrington (New York: Grove, 1963 [1961]), 30–31, my emphasis.
53. Ibid., 13, emphasis added.
54. Bernasconi, “Sartre’s Gaze Returned,” 207. As I will discuss later, Bernasconi
underestimates the importance of this turn to preface writing by reading it
through Sartre’s early problematic of reversing the gaze.
55. Sartre, “Preface,” 24.
56. Sartre, “Black Orpheus,” 291. Sartre, “Preface,” 7.
57. Sartre, “Preface,” 8.
58. Ibid., 9–10.
59. Ibid., 21.
60. Bernasconi, “Sartre’s Gaze Returned,” 211.
61. Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, 10–11, emphasis added.
62. See Lewis R. Gordon, “The Black and the Body Politic: Fanon’s Existential
Phenomenological Critique of Psychoanalysis,” in Gordon, Sharpley-Whiting,
and White, eds., Fanon, 83.
63. Frantz Fanon, “Letter to the Resident Minister (1956),” in Toward the African
Revolution, trans. H. Chevalier (New York: Grove, 1988 [1964]), 53–54.
64. Accordingly, I would agree at least in part that “his letter of resignation
signaled a rupture with Sartrean existentialism,” but such a view wrongly
portrays the latter as a monolithic and hermetically sealed unity. Turner, “On
the Difference between the Fanonian and Hegelian Dialectic of Lordship and
Bondage,” 135.
65. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Introduction,” in Albert Memmi, The Colonizer and the
Colonized, trans. H. Greenfeld (Boston: Beacon, 1967 [1957]), xxiv.
66. Jean-Paul Sartre, Critique of Dialectical Reason, trans. A. Sheridan-Smith
(London: Verso, 1976 [1960]), 300 n.88.
67. Bernasconi, “Sartre’s Gaze Returned,” 212.
68. Ibid., 213.
69. Ibid., 217 n.46.
70. Ibid., 210.
71. Bernasconi, “Sartre’s Gaze Returned,” 207.
72. Robert Bernasconi, “Casting the Slough: Fanon’s New Humanism for a New
Humanity,” in Gordon, Sharpley-Whiting, and White, eds., Fanon, 114.
73. Bernasconi, “Casting the Slough,” 119, my emphasis. Thanks to Marilyn
Nissim-Sabat for bringing this passage to my attention.
74. Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 84–85 n. This paradox is of course central,
but only as a sort of framework of facticity which was moreover self-evident
to Fanon. The larger insight within which this passage appears is the discus-
sion of the colonial world as Manichean, as an extension of the framework
that Fanon had delineated in Black Skin, White Masks.
75. Macey suggests that “there is no indication that Sartre had read or even heard
of Fanon until Les Temps modernes published the chapter from L’An V in
May–June 1959.” David Macey, Frantz Fanon: A Biography (New York:
Picador, 2000), 452. But, my argument shows that there exist good textual
reasons, most specifically in the preface, to believe that Sartre had indeed read
Fanon earlier than this. While the self-criticism of the preface is compatible
with Macey’s historical argument, this would entail that Sartre, after having
read L’An V, returned immediately to Black Skin, White Masks, digested that
work (or at least the parts critical of himself), and accepted those critiques
fully. Moreover, this scenario would also imply that Sartre’s development up to
that point had been—by mere unconscious coincidence—following the
contours of those very same unknown critiques.
 European Intellectuals and Colonial Difference 153

Textual analysis aside, Macey points out that portions of Black Skin, White
Masks had appeared in the Parisian journal Esprit, which “was widely
regarded as one of the great expressions of the spirit of the wartime Resis-
tance,” and even compares the small journal politically to Sartre’s own Les
Temps modernes (154). It was through Esprit that Fanon came into contact
with Editions du Seuil, which shared an office with Esprit and would publish
Black Skin, White Masks. Fanon’s editor at Seuil was none other than Francis
Jeanson, a radical anticolonial intellectual who would later work directly for
the Algerian FLN, and whose first book was devoted entirely to Sartre. At the
time, Jeanson was also editorial director at Sartre’s own Les Temps modernes.
And simultaneous to the publication of Black Skin, White Masks, Jeanson was
embroiled in the Sartre-Camus debate due to his critical review of the latter’s
L’Homme revolté in May 1952 (Macey, 161). See also Mark Poster, Existential
Marxism in Postwar France: From Sartre to Althusser (Princeton: Princeton
University, 1975), 185–89). Jeanson would later pen a famous open letter to
Sartre in 1960 and Sartre would make a number of enemies in his defense of
Jeanson, who was standing trial for aiding the FLN. That Sartre would have
no knowledge of Fanon’s book, in which Sartre himself figured prominently,
and for which Jeanson would write an extended preface, seems unlikely even if
we forget for a moment the suggestive shifts in Sartre’s understanding of race
and colonialism (see Macey, 159). What is even more likely is that Sartre had
read Fanon’s anonymous editorials in El Moudjahid. We would be missing a
large part of the picture if we were to limit our view to the question of
whether or not Sartre cited Fanon’s work or claimed openly to be inspired by
it: That he did not may merely be part of the problem. After all, how often did
Sartre cite Fanon after 1961?
76. Bernasconi, “Casting the Slough,” 119.
77. Ibid., 120.
78. Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism (London: Vintage, 1993), 335–36.
79. Foucault, “Truth and Power,” 69.
80. Sartre, Existentialism and Humanism, 54–56.
81. Césaire, Discourse on Colonialism, 36.
82. Ibid., 73.
83. Ibid., 54–55.
84. Ibid., 36.
85. Cited in Robin D. G. Kelley, “A Poetics of Anticolonialism,” in Césaire, Discourse
on Colonialism, 25–26.
86. Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 311–12.
87. Ibid., 315.
88. Fanon, “The Fact of Blackness,” Black Skin, White Masks, 109–40. This trans-
lation is positively misleading, as the literal rendering is “The Lived Experience
of the Black.”
89. Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 215–17.
90. Such a limit is, perhaps, also visible in Sartre’s position on Zionism which, at
the height of the Six Day War of 1967, would lead Fanon’s widow to demand
the removal of Sartre’s preface. Macey, Frantz Fanon, 467. See also Edward
Said’s reflections on Sartre’s persistent Zionism in Edward Said, “My
Encounter with Sartre,” London Review of Books 22.11 (1 June 2000),
http://www.lrb.co.uk/v22/n11/said01_.html.
91. Accordingly, Sartre’s recognition of the new “end of the dialectic” is one which
remains largely at the empirical level, as a recognition of historical develop-
ment, but one which bestows no additional significance on this new
humanism.
154 George Ciccariello-Maher
92. Frantz Fanon, A Dying Colonialism, trans. H. Chevalier (New York: Grove,
1965 [1959]), 179; 181.
93. Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 246, emphasis added. Fanon, The Wretched
of the Earth, 93–94.
94. Here I refer most directly to the recently rekindled debate regarding power and
the state, in which intellectuals like John Holloway and Antonio
Negri/Michael Hardt advocate deterritorialization and anti-Institutionalism in
the face of glaring evidence that those engaged in liberatory struggle are
placing transformative demands on the state and using the state as a transfor-
mative tool (for e.g., Bolivia and Venezuela). For a coherent critique of
Holloway and Negri that doesn’t fall into old left reductionism, see Enrique
Dussel, “From Critical Theory to the Philosophy of Liberation,” trans. G. Ciccariello-
Maher, forthcoming in R. Grosfoguel, N. Maldonado-Torres, and J. David Saldivar,
eds., The Decolonial Turn.
 Part III

Sartre and
Africana Existentialism
This page intentionally left blank.
 Chapter 7

Sartre and Black Existentialism

Lewis R. Gordon

I would love to have had a cup of coffee with Jean-Paul Sartre. Had I the
opportunity, I would first thank him for his courage. He fought not only the
antihuman forces of antisemitism and antiblack racism in French and
American society, but also those vices within him that always offered the
seduction of an easy way out. I also wonder if his academic and political
critics of today could defend their values under the threats faced by him when
he defended his. Think of the five thousand war veterans marching down the
Champs-Élysées in 1960 chanting, “Kill Sartre!” in response to his support
of Algerian independence. Think of the death threats and assassination
attempts by the Organisation de l’Armée Secrète (OAS), who bombed his
apartment. Think of his refusal to tour the United States during the Vietnam
War. And think of his rejection of the Nobel Prize for Literature on the
avowed grounds of belonging to no institution. He stood his ground, as best
he could, which, for a human being, could not have been other than imper-
fect. Indeed that imperfection was at the heart of his committed atheism,
which insisted that the human condition demanded that we face the world
without God’s support.1 His response was to live that condition, and beyond
the many bad readings of his critique of social reality, to do so with concern
for the lives of others. His understanding of the struggle for freedom and
what it means to be historical while engaged in socially transformative pro-
jects was coterminous. This made him a constant ally of black existential
thought and black liberation struggles throughout most of the twentieth cen-
tury, since his emphasis on what it means to be a human being was a shared
interest of people whose humanity has been denigrated in the modern world.
Sartre’s involvement with black existential philosophy was, however, not
as an outsider. In my introduction to Existence in Black: An Anthology of
Black Existential Philosophy, I argued that black existential philosophy is
not only existential philosophy produced by black philosophers.2 It is also

157
158 Lewis R. Gordon

thought that addresses the intersection of problems of existence in black

contexts. One does not have to be black to raise and study such concerns.
Some scholars are so committed to such issues that they become lived reali-
ties for them. In their social associations and political commitments, they
become organically linked to the causes of communities in which they were
not born. They receive, as well, the wrath from bigoted forces for their clear
allegiance. It is in this sense that Sartre is also an insider to black existential
philosophy.3 He did not relate to black existential thought in an ethno-
graphic way but as a participant in its living debates, critical reflections,
and political structure. His interest in the condition of blacks was animated
by concerns for freedom and an appreciation of black aesthetic production
as a leitmotif of the modern world. The question of freedom for him was
straightforward. Blacks are people, which means, from the perspective of his
philosophy, that they are freedom. Their bondage and the subsequent insti-
tutional limitations imposed upon them by racism lead to an antisocial
world, one committed to the eradication of freedom. It also leads to a form
of suffering that is a function of unfreedom, where a free being is either
repressed through violence or denies his or her freedom. The unfree include
those paralyzed in their situation because of fear and anxiety over what the
unknown offers, as well as the individuals who comfort themselves in the
denial of other people’s freedom.
Either position requires a social world in which the meeting of human
phenomena as phenomena (which, for human beings, when genuinely
achieved, is also noumena) is the greatest fear. This dynamic of anxiety-rid-
dled freedom permeates Sartre’s work on what he refers to, in his early writ-
ings, as “human reality.” He refers to unfreedom in Being and Nothingness as
“mauvaise foi” (bad faith), a lie to ourselves in the effort to hide from our
freedom, to make ourselves believe what we do not believe, to make of our-
selves an unconscious “thing” in the world, or to deny that we are in a world
of other human beings.4 As early as L’Imaginaire (1940), Sartre had pointed
out that we sometimes even try to deny the role we play in the images we con-
struct.5 Consider his rejection of phenomenalism, which he presents through
a critique of the phenomenalist. Such a view advances the absence of a dis-
tinction between a perceived object and its imagined image. Yet if such a
notion were correct, then the number of columns on, say, the actually per-
ceived Parthenon should be identical with those on the imagined one. This is,
however, not so. Its reason is not, however, simply about number but also
about the distinctness of enumeration. The “number” of columns on the
imagined Parthenon is, in other words, vague and best characterized by
words such as “several” or “many.” The actual columns on the Parthenon,
encountered by perception, are distinct and countable. The perceived object
imposes a reality on the perceiver the rejection of which would either mean
 Sartre and Black Existentialism 159

that there is something wrong with his or her faculties of perception and,
understanding of the act of perceiving, or an unwillingness to admit what he
or she perceives. The imaging, however, is completely a function of the will or
agency of individual imagination. For phenomenalists to believe what they
claim to believe about perceiving and imagining they must literally present an
image as that which they did not present or they must collapse their percep-
tion into a purely voluntary act. Since the contradiction of presenting some-
thing as not being presented, of denying responsibility over something for
which one is responsible, or of encountering something as not being encoun-
tered requires the agent’s intentions or, in this case, willful presentation of the
image, Sartre, in effect, reveals phenomenalism as a malediction of belief. It
is, in other words, a form of believing what one does not believe while
denying the responsibility for doing so.
As late as The Family Idiot, Sartre explored the practices for which we
deny responsibility.6 He also explicitly connects this denial to the study of
racism in his writings throughout his career. Think of Antisemite and Jew or
of the appendix to his Notebooks for an Ethics.7 In the former, he argues that
the antisemite wants to make himself (and others) ascribe to a version of “the
Jew” constructed by antisemitic societies. It is in this sense that the antisemite
“makes” the Jew. It is not that Jews have not existed before antisemitism, but
“the Jew” in this form is a function of such hatred and as Sartre also shows,
desire. It is, as in the case of phenomenalism, a form of believing what one
does not really believe but wishes to be the case. The socially constructed
notions of “the Jew,” then, lead, as well, to the demand on Jews to become so-
called authentic Jews. But such Jews often fall short of the lived reality of
Jewishness—namely, not all Jews are the same and most do not subscribe to
the stereotypic constructions of Jewishness advanced by the antisemite. Yet
the pressure of being authentically Jewish does impose a form of bad faith in
which some Jews live in bad faith as the stereotypes prescribe. The result is a
form of Jewish self-denial in antisemitic Jewishness.8
In the Notebooks for an Ethics, Sartre examined the more dialectical
features of imposed identity through a look at U.S. racialized slavery, in
which the masters must make themselves believe that the designation of
property means that the slaves were not really people while living through
the constant negotiations of language and other forms of social interchange
that entail otherwise.9 Think also of “Black Orpheus,” where he points to
the bad faith involved in black desire to be lost in the negative moment of
antiracist struggles.10 Even though his language is more explicitly dialec-
tical there, the point is that even “antiracist racism,” although emboldening
a revolutionary consciousness, is, nevertheless, a form of racism, and since
racism in the end must be overcome, so must such a view, which, in the end,
is a form of false belief. Or think of his Le Figaro article on his visit to the
160 Lewis R. Gordon

United States in 1945, where he elegantly revealed the folly of racist ratio-
nality in a Southern physician who knows that there is no difference between
black people’s blood and white people’s blood and yet still insists that it is
not safe for white people to receive blood from black donors on the ground
that it is not good to have black blood flowing in the veins of white people.11
Or “Black Presence,” where he looks at the semiology of Africa in the
modern world as a “black hole.”12
In the Critique of Dialectical Reason, Sartre also discusses the ongoing
violence and racism of colonialism.13 The pages he dedicated in that text to
analyzing and criticizing France’s racist policies in Algeria, where Berbers and
Arabs, in addition to other black or mixed-race Algerians and Arabic Jews,
were constantly struggling against a French-enforced dehumanization of
them through many legal restrictions and institutions at the level of civil
society, were valuable contributions in the intellectual and political struggles
against racism. Their accuracy and impact were such that, as we have already
seen, they endangered Sartre’s life. Then there is his foreword to Frantz
Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, where he advanced his controversial view
of European liberal narcissistic expectations of dependency-saturated grati-
tude from the people of the Third World.14 That search for gratitude, of
which he warned, haunts even the present, especially in the subordinated,
hungry iconography of Africa today. These texts, and the many editorials and
speeches he used to rally against racism worldwide, attest to Sartre’s firm
place as an ally of communities fighting against racial oppression.
Sartre’s black existentialism was not only as an antiracist theorist and
activist, however, since Sartre also loved jazz. It and the hipsters that
emerged in black communities in the 1930s and 1940s offered examples of
the assertion of freedom under claustrophobic circumstances. There are
moments in which jazz music and correlated hipsters punctuated Nausea.15
One could literally “hear” jazz as the leitmotif of the text as Roquentin, the
protagonist, goes about his daily activities. The intimate blues foundations
of jazz come through in the melancholia of the text. The blues, after all, is a
music premised upon lost innocence. The mature reflection of productive
loss, of facing the symbiotic relationship between negation and the search
for meaning as an affirmation of life, comes through in the polyrhythmic
and polyphonic use of dissonance in jazz. The “cool” blackness that accom-
panied the beatnik culture in which Sartre’s writings were major
contributions, as George Cotkin recently points out in Existential America,
was more than the black turtlenecks and berets that practitioners wore.16 It
was also the bebop walk in the night beyond the false universals coughed
up by European modernity. Moreover, Sartre loved and followed closely
developments in African Diasporic popular culture. I am quite sure that, if
he were alive today, Sartre would also be a proponent of World Music and
 Sartre and Black Existentialism 161

at least the freedom-celebrating dimensions of hip hop. The author of the

preface to The Wretched of the Earth would have surely understood the
blues that mark the negritude influenced work of Milton Nascimento in
Brazil as well as the Black Nationalism of Public Enemy and the Black Femi-
nism of Me’Shell NdegéOcello in the United States.17
Moreover, today there are black philosophical organizations in the United
States and the Caribbean with many scholars who engage Sartre’s thought.
The same could be said about blacks in Africa, which I will only briefly
mention since Mabogo P. More has written for this volume a more detailed
discussion of Sartre’s influence on South African intellectuals. Sartre’s
relationship with blacks in the New World is not only posthumous. The
most famous examples during Sartre’s lifetime were Richard Wright and
Frantz Fanon. Wright and Sartre argued over foundational figures of exis-
tential thought such as Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, as Margaret Walker
attests in her biography of Wright.18 And Fanon’s relationship to Sartre took
several indirect forms, such as his relationship with Sartre’s friend, critic, and
biographer Francis Jeanson, who helped publish Black Skin, White Masks in
1952, and then, eventually directly, in their famous meeting in Rome several
months before Fanon died in 1961.19 Let us refuse to collapse those rela-
tionships into the familiar false roles of black dependents on white
originality. “Were Wright and Fanon ‘Sartrean’?” is a question that cannot
account for the cross-fertilization of these thinkers. The truth is that Wright
and Fanon were simply too original and historic in their own right for their
egos to be crushed under the weight of Sartre’s greatness. Their relationship
with Sartre was more dialogical than one of tutelage. But more, Sartre did
not patronize them, which meant that their relationships were also more
tense and turbulent, although short since Wright died at the age of fifty-two
and Fanon at the age of thirty-six.
Wright offered Sartre a healthy debate on the nihilistic dimensions of
modern life. He saw, as did Sartre, that in the struggle for significance we
often face situations in which losers win and winners lose. I am reminded of
the famous scene in the 1990 John Duigan movie Flirting, where the scrawny
protagonist Danny Embling is beaten senseless by a large bully while he
imagines Sartre raising his pipe and cheering him on, for we know, in the
end, that his courage already made him a winner, which made losing the
fight irrelevant. Each time the bully struck him down, Embling revealed
himself courageous and the bully a coward. He thus, at the end of the fight,
got the girl, which Sartre surely would have appreciated.20 Unlike Sartrean
irony when losers win, Wright’s stories were often of losers losing, that
Abdul JanMohamed has aptly characterized as “death-bound subjectivity.”
Cross Damon, Wright’s antihero in The Outsider, struggled to be a man
through a variety of personae only to find himself, at the end of a long road
162 Lewis R. Gordon

that included a few murders, dying of a feared innocence.21 Since only

adults, in this case a man, can be responsible for their actions, what was
Damon’s innocence but an absence of his responsibility, which, in the end,
is also a failure of his humanity?
Fanon, too, understood that there were some battles that simply needed
to be fought, but his was without the nihilating threats that faced Wright. He
admired Sartre, although with lamented moments of disappointment at
Sartre’s willingness to write the truth even about things such as the rela-
tivism and negative dialectical moment that was Negritude, a realization
that, as Fanon pointed out in the fifth chapter of Black Skin, White Masks,
he “needed not to know.”22 He lamented, “Help had been sought from a
friend of the colored peoples, and that friend had found no better response
than to point out the relativity of what they were doing.”23 Black anti-
whiteness enables blacks to fight against white supremacy, but it is reactive,
a consequence of that racism, which means that to move forward, it, too,
must be transcended. The black, Fanon reminds us, needed to get lost “in the
night of the absolute.”24 This realization, this loss of innocence, produces a
new subjectivity, a matured melancholic one living loss. At their brief
meeting in Rome, where he proceeded to engage Sartre in discussion for
several hours before Sartre was rescued away by Simone de Beauvoir to the
refuge of some much-needed rest, Fanon revealed his distaste for men who
“hoard their resources” and challenged Sartre, and by implication the rest of
us, to take on the project of building new concepts, values, and material
infrastructures for a healthy world. Fanon had let go of other attachments in
his commitment to an open teleology of freedom. The Wretched of the Earth
in many ways challenged the nihilistic threat through affirming political
agency. Like Wright, Fanon saw that ethics as handed down by modernity
lacked its own support in the face of the lived reality of black folks. For
blacks and colonized peoples, the question is which political actions would
enable the framework for an ethics, not, as liberal normative theory
demands, that of finding an ethics on which to build politics.
There is not enough space here to provide a list of all the works and
thinkers engaging Sartre’s contributions to black existential thought. But,
consider this short genealogy. The negritude movement, led by Aimé Césaire,
Léopold Senghor, and Léon-Gontran Damas, had a steady engagement with
existential philosophy, with Sartre’s arguments about the metastability of the
human condition, achieving particular prominence among writers from the
Caribbean. In the American academy, the first, most engaged treatment of
his thought in black academic philosophy was by William R. Jones.25 There,
the familiar black existential focus on philosophical anthropology (the
human question) was advanced through a careful reading of Sartre’s search
for an ethics that did not collapse into the spirit of seriousness (a form of
 Sartre and Black Existentialism 163

bad faith). Jones then followed up with Is God a White Racist? A Preamble
to Black Theology, in which he showed that black theology faced collapsing
into a theodicy of white supremacist religiosity (which he called
“whiteanity”) so long as it failed to raise the question of human agency on
earth independent of theocentric rationalization.26 Sartre and Fanon were
very influential in Jones’s construction of his existential philosophy of black
liberation, although Jones also appreciated Camus’s treatment of struggling
with absurdity.
Sartre’s resolute stand on embodied freedom led to critical discussions of
his thought among black liberationists. Angela Y. Davis’s early thought is
one instance, and others include Robert Birt, who has written articles that
look at questions of black liberation and racial identity from the perspec-
tive of Sartre’s existential phenomenology.27 David Theo Goldberg, the
internationally renowned race theorist, too, began his career writing on
Sartre, where he emphasized the importance of Sartre’s Critique of Dialec-
tical Reason for the study of racism.28 Sartre’s influence extended also to
the Anglophone Caribbean, where it had an impact on the recent thought
of Paget Henry, the leading theoretician of Afro-Caribbean philosophy.29 In
South Africa, Sartre’s treatment of the body in Being and Nothingness and
his ideas on racism in Antisemite and Jew were influential in the work of
Noel Manganyi, Steve Biko, and Mabogo P. More. Manganyi wrote several
books on alienation and the black body.30 There is, in Biko’s writings on
black consciousness and his critique of liberalism and liberal colorblindness,
the clear influence of Sartre’s discussion of the modern liberal antisemite
who will welcome “the Jew” so long as he or she does not appear as a Jew.31
And More has written on Sartre in the South African context over the past
two decades.32 More’s dissertation,“Sartre and the Problem of Racism,” is
the most systematic and comprehensive statement by an indigenous African
on Sartre’s thought and its influence in South Africa. It offers, as well, an
important critique of the most recent effort at colorblindness in race theory,
namely, K. Anthony Appiah’s cosmopolitanism.33 Using Sartre’s discussion
of groups-in-fusion and the pledge group in the Critique, More points out
that racists see the subjects of racial hatred in terms of groups, not individ-
uals. “Since,” concludes More, “racism is fundamentally not a phenomenon
about the uniqueness of an autonomous individual but about collective
groups (the superiority or inferiority of a presumed racial group), each
individual person belonging to that particular collective is replaceable and
changeable in the manner of each individual within a seriality. For this
reason, it is impossible to fight racism as an autonomous individual. This
point is given explicit expression by the African proverb that the individual
cannot fight the king’s troops alone even though he is designated as a target
of their bullets.”34
164 Lewis R. Gordon

I, too, began my academic career by building on Sartre’s thoughts on bad

faith in my study of antiblack racism, which was my dissertation (1993),
published in revised and expanded form as Bad Faith and Antiblack Racism
(1995).35 My analysis extended the concept of mauvaise foi by exploring its
ramifications for human study and its paradoxical, social dimensions, which
led to my articulation of societal forms of bad faith or institutional bad faith.
And since then, a group of young scholars working on the study of race and
racism and constructive work in Africana thought through engaging both
Sartre’s thought and Merleau-Ponty’s have emerged in the academy.36 As
well, my edited volume Existence in Black and coedited volume Fanon: A
Critical Reader reveal the impact of Sartre’s thought on black issues in the
work of several leading contemporary scholars in Africana philosophy.37
George Yancy’s work exemplifies similar interest, and his recent anthologies
on the study of whiteness also reveal a set of race theorists of the existential
kind who are heavily indebted to Sartre’s thought.38 And in philosophical
treatments of mixed-race theory, Naomi Zack attempts to build her concep-
tion of humanism and cosmopolitanism on her reading of Sartre’s thought in
her book Race and Mixed Race.39 In black existential philosophy of educa-
tion, the work of Stephen Haymes, which includes examining the ways in
which black slaves developed their own pedagogy for survival and cultural
growth, stands out.40 Sartre’s writings have also had continued impact on
black literary existential writers such as George Lamming, whose Castle of
My Skin bears many thematic similarities to Black Skin, White Masks, and
cultural critic Manthia Diawara, whose In Search of Africa uses Sartre’s
“Black Orpheus,” as its organizing thematic.41
The only other recent European thinker that I know to garner as much
interest among black existentialists and other black theorists of liberation is
Michel Foucault.42 Although Foucault’s prominence in many ways eclipsed
Sartre across black studies, there is a growing appreciation of Sartre’s ideas
as more writers, ironically, begin to see the structural limits of poststructural
analysis. The antiessentialism, the focus on the epistemic conditions of social
phenomena, and technologies of the self offered by Foucauldian genealog-
ical poststructuralism often elide, for some authors, the lived reality of their
condition. For them, existential phenomenology offers a way of dealing with
the situations and social structures in need of change, as David Fryer
recently argued in his essay, “African American Queer Studies.” 43 Such
concerns lead inevitably to some engagement with Sartre’s thought. This is
ironic, given the near oedipal relationship Foucault had with Sartre, and the
clearly oedipal relationship much of post-Sartrean French thought had with
Sartreanism (especially in light of both Sartre’s and Foucault’s critiques of
oedipal relationships).44 In Africana philosophy, the situation is, however,
less divided. Sartre and Foucault both offer much, often in the work of a
 Sartre and Black Existentialism 165

single thinker. For Africana philosophers, the meeting of these two thinkers
is not as difficult as it may appear among more Eurocentric scholars. Fanon,
for example, in his discussion of the sociogenic dimensions of race, racism,
and colonial psychological maledictions in Black Skin, White Masks clearly
portends both the archaeological and genealogical discussions of the
production of subjects, but he does so in dialogue with the work of Merleau-
Ponty and Sartre, as well as Césaire. Foucault wrote some on racism; Sartre
wrote a lot more; and Fanon rarely failed to engage the phenomenon.45
Given the persistence of and even rise in racism in many parts of the globe,
the ongoing relevance of these thinkers for theorists engaging racial
dynamics makes much sense.
As a result let me turn to the central objection often raised to black liber-
ation and Africana engagements with Sartre’s existential phenomenological
thought. Many critics appeal to the supposed antisocial arguments in Part 3
of Being and Nothingness.46 The Other, in their interpretation of Sartre’s
thought, is merely a psychological phenomenon with whom the Subject is
in conflict. If racism is, as Fanon has argued, a sociogenic phenomenon—a
product of the social world—Sartre’s failure to construct a social world in
his early thought offers nothing more than a dead end. Fruit is offered in his
later work, where we find the productive engagement with Marxism in his
effort to bring out the truly practical dimensions of dialectics in his theory
of groups. It is also there that he offers a philosophy of history and a theory
of the ability to transform it.
I do not, however, see Sartre’s later thought as incompatible with his
earlier thought. Yes, he was always working on and refining his language.
But the argument, which involves recognizing the human role in human
actions, remains throughout. I do not agree with the interpretation of his
early thought as nonsocial. Such an interpretation fails to see the transcen-
dental argument implicit in his treatment of the question of others and social
reality. Sartre argued, for instance, that sadism is a form of denying one’s
own embodiment. Since one is embodied, such a denial is a form of lying to
oneself; it is a form of bad faith. But the crucial next observation is that
Sartre argues that the sadist denies that the Other has a point of view. The
sadist tries, in other words, to deny that he or she can be seen by others
through denying that there are others in the world. In effect, a condition of
Sartre’s ascription of bad faith to the sadist is that there is a social world, a
world of intersubjectivity. This argument is crucial, even for the later work,
for without it, his engagement with Marxism would collapse into a naive
materialism or self-deceived avowal of objectivity as completely independent
of any subjectivity. It would be a materialism without human beings.
I have found Sartre’s insights into the dynamics involved in denying a
social world to be useful for philosophical explorations of oppression and all
166 Lewis R. Gordon

aspects of human study. For example, we deny social reality by suspending

the norms of evidence. Evidence is, after all, peculiarly public and, hence,
social. When we suspend evidence, we enable ourselves to believe all kinds
of things that we may not in fact really believe. Think, for example, of the
proverbial missing cookies from the cookie jar. Parents who may be invested
in their child’s perfection may conclude that crumbs on the child’s lips are
insufficient evidence in the face of the child’s insistence of not having eaten
the cookies. Such parents may even go so far as to deny what others might
see when faced with the same evidence by appealing to a hyperrational
exception. Crumbs on their child’s lips, although “suggesting” that their
child has eaten cookies does not logically entail that their child has eaten
the cookies that were in the jar. But more, our intersubjective relations
could become saturated by forms of denial, and since our institutions depend
on lived social reality to maintain them, we could create ossified realities that
hide us from ourselves. One could easily claim to be the best at what one
does, for example, by making oneself believe that the social forces that
eliminate others from the competition are valid. Fighting such structures is
tantamount to attempting to run ourselves through brick walls. But for those
for whom they have been designed, such structures are as permeable as
water. They see no boundaries. Sartre’s discussion of the anarchic conscious-
ness in Part 3 of Being and Nothingness is very insightful here.47 That such
a consciousness is also a form of bad faith reveals the error in reading Sartre
as a proponent of absolute, radical freedom, which he there called a “bour-
geois consciousness.”
Added to all this is the theory of metastability, which enables us to under-
stand that human subjects are incomplete phenomena and can even be
unstable at the metareflective level. To study human beings involves a radi-
cally different approach than to study nature. To study human beings
requires also understanding the studier, which is self-referential and
metastable. This aspect of Sartre’s thought places his role in phenomenology
as akin to that of Kurt Gödel’s in mathematics. They reveal the incomplete-
ness of foundational discourses. I have built on that insight in my book
Fanon and the Crisis of European Man: An Essay on Philosophy and the
Human Sciences to argue for the anticolonial aspect of phenomenology.48
Where colonization occurs at the epistemological level, even method must be
subject to such a critique.
Black existential philosophy is not, however, only concerned with
antiblack racism, the contexts of black culture, the genealogy of black exis-
tentialism and its concomitant epistemological framework. It is also
concerned with the complexity of building on ideas germane to communities
designated black, most of which are African and African diaspora commu-
nities, and also include indigenous East Indian and Australian aboriginal
 Sartre and Black Existentialism 167

populations. There, Sartre’s thought is akin to W. E. B. Du Bois’s reflections

on studying populations whose existence has been treated as a problem in
the modern world. We need to study their problems instead of making them
into problems. Du Bois’s argument accentuates Sartre’s on bad faith. For
instance, the spirit of seriousness, where values are treated as material
features of the world instead of expressions of human reality, is a form of
bad faith. Making people into problems materializes the values imposed on
them into the people themselves. They literally become, regardless of what
they do, problems or objects that are functions of the spirit of seriousness.
Black problems, which Du Bois shows are black people as problems, become
reflections of societal bad faith, of members of the society’s refusal to admit
the role they play in the creation of social problems, at least with regard to
black people. Such a denial requires making black people into another
Sartrean expression: pure facticity.49
Let me close this sketch of Sartre’s impact on black existentialism by
returning to the blues. The blues, which are the foundations for jazz and
most twentieth-century popular music, are premised on an insight in stream
with Nietzsche’s discussion of ancient Greek tragedy in The Birth of Tragedy
from the Spirit of Music.50 Nietzsche argued that tragedies took on the
suffering of life in its genuine terror and absurdity. In doing so, it enabled
an adult affirmation of life through facing reality as void. The blues offers
suffering with ironic twists and turns that point to adult responsibility. There
is wisdom, for instance, in understanding that life is not fair, that there are
not material values waiting out there to support us in a nest in which we
could remain permanently children. Growing up is a painful ideal. It is a
form of productive loss. Our attachments are often the source of misery, and
much liberation is gained in discovering how much there is in life of which
we must let go. We need to learn, the blues tell us, to laugh so we can cope
but also cry so that we can see more clearly and become actional. Sartre’s
love for jazz, a product of blues music, was connected to his commitment to
enjoy life while not denying its travails. We are now in the wake of his
hundredth birthday anniversary and the twenty-fifth anniversary of his
death. Like the blues, there is in these dates celebration and lamentation.

Notes
1. For discussion of Sartre’s “Religious Atheism,” see Sylvain Boni, The Self and
Other in the Ontologies of Sartre and Buber (Washington, D.C.: University
Press of America, 1987), 32.
2. Lewis R. Gordon, “Introduction,” Existence in Black: An Anthology of
Black Existential Philosophy, ed. Lewis R. Gordon (New York: Routledge,
1997). This chapter focuses mostly on the Africana stream of black existen-
tial thought, although the category “black” exceeds Africa. For more dis-
cussion, especially of African Diasporic philosophy, see Lewis R. Gordon,
168 Lewis R. Gordon
An Introduction to Africana Philosophy (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge
University Press, 2008).
3. We could, as well, add David Theo Goldberg, the famed theorist of race and
racism, to this list. Goldberg commenced his professional philosophical career
with his dissertation “The Philosophical Foundations of Racism” (New York:
Graduate Center, City University of New York, 1985), a work that focused on
Sartre’s contributions to the subject.
4. Being and Nothingness: A Phenomenological Essay on Ontology, trans. with
an intro. by Hazel Barnes (New York: Washington Square, 1956), 87.
5. This work is available in English as Psychology of Imagination, trans. Bernard
Frechtman (New York: Citadel, 1991). The work was the second volume of
the revised version of Sartre’s aggregation thesis on imagination. The first,
L’imagination, published in 1936, is available in English as Imagination: A
Psychological Critique, trans. Forrest Williams (Ann Arbor: University of
Michigan Press, 1962).
6. Published in French in 1971, the work appears in English as: Jean-Paul Sartre,
The Family Idiot: Gustave Flaubert, 1821–1857, vols. 1–5, trans. Carol
Cosman (Chicago : University of Chicago Press, 1981–1993).
7. Jean-Paul Sartre, Antisemite and Jew, trans. George Becker (New York:
Schocken, 1948) and Notebooks for an Ethics, trans. David Pellauer (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1992).
8. The unfortunate consequence of such pressure is the political homogenizing of
European Jews into the most authentic representations of Jewishness. For the
rest of Jews in the world, especially those who are also part of the African
Diaspora and those who are Middle Eastern and Asiatic, the result has been
European and North American imposed invisibility. For a discussion of the
actual diversity of Jews, see Diane Tobin, Gary A Tobin, and Scott Rubin, In
Every Tongue: The Racial and Ethnic Diversity of the Jewish People (San
Francisco: Institute for Jewish Research and Community, 2005).
9. See Jean-Paul Sartre, Notebooks for an Ethics, Appendix 2.
10. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Black Orpheus,” trans. John MacCombie, in “What Is Liter-
ature?” and Other Essays, ed. with an intro. by Steven Ungar (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988), 289–330.
11. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Return from the United States: What I Learned about the
Black Problem,” trans. with comparative notes in 1995 by T. Denean Sharpley-
Whiting, in Existence in Black, ed. Lewis R. Gordon, 81–90. I was delighted
when Arlette Elkaïm-Sartre, his adopted daughter, gave me permission to have
T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting translate his Le Figaro article and include it in my
anthology of black existential philosophy. I know that he, too, would have
been proud to have been included in such a book. He would have been so
because, white though he may have been by birth, Sartre was never afraid to
exist in black, and for that, I here join company with those who proverbially
give him thanks and praise.
The story of Arlette Elkaïm-Sartre is a fascinating one. Sartre left his literary
estate to her instead of to Simone de Beauvoir. The latter had attempted at one
point to get Sartre committed to an asylum because of his behavior among the
young Maoists in the 1970s, and it became clear that he did not trust her with
the legacy of his words. When I had solicited the permission to translate the
Figaro article, Elkaïm-Sartre only requested the standard fee of a few cents
each word and that she review the text to make sure it did not change what
Sartre actually said, even though I had proposed a fee of more than a thou-
sand dollars above the final $180 cost to translate the text. I take it from that
experience that it was not, as Sartre publicly claimed, a matter of looking after
 Sartre and Black Existentialism 169

Elkaïm-Sartre’s financial welfare that he left his estate to her. I suspect that it
was, quite simply, that he trusted her.
An additional point about their relationship. It is well known that Arlette
Elkaïm was a former lover of Sartre. By subsequently adopting her, Sartre
managed to achieve something, at least symbolically. It is well known among
his biographers that Sartre wanted to be a Jew. Arlette Elkaïm is Jewish, an
Algerian Jew. Thus, through her, his legacy becomes Jewish. For commentary,
with all the implications of incest and betrayal that Sartre’s act of adopting
Arlette Elkaïm exemplified, see Ronald Hayman, Sartre: A Biography (New
York: Carroll and Graf, 1987), 403–405.
12. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Black Presence,” in The Writings of Jean-Paul Sartre, vol. 2,
Selected Prose, ed. Michel Contat and Michel Rybalka and trans. Richard
McCleary (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1974), 187–89.
13. Jean-Paul Sartre, Critique of Dialectical Reason, vol. 1, Theory of Practical
Ensembles, trans. Alan Sheridan-Smith and ed. Jonathan Rée (London: Verso,
1991), 714–34.
14. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Preface,” in Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans.
Constance Farrington (New York: Grove, 1963).
15. There are many instances in the text, but see, for e.g., “Real beginnings are like
a fanfare of trumpets, like the first notes of a jazz tune, cutting short tedium,
making for continuity . . . I am so happy when a Negress sings: what summits
would I not reach if my own life made the subject of the melody,” Jean-Paul
Sartre, Nausea, trans. Lloyd Alexander, with an intro. by Hayden Carruth
(New York: New Directions, 1964), 37–38.
16. George Cotkin, Existential America. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 2003), Introduction.
17. For discussion of these artists (and many more), see Lewis R. Gordon, “The
Problem of Maturity in Hip Hop,” The Review of Education, Pedagogy, and
Cultural Studies 27.4 (October–December 2005): 367–89.
18. Margaret Walker, Daemonic Genius (New York: Amistad, 1993). These discus-
sions between Wright and Sartre are well known. See also Simone de
Beauovoir’s After the War: Force of Circumstance, 1944–1952, trans. Richard
Howard (New York: Marlowe, 1992), and Abdul JanMohamed, The Death-
Bound-Subject: Richard Wright’s Archaeology of Death (Durham, N.C.: Duke
University Press, 2005).
19. Their brief meeting in 1961 while Sartre and de Beauvoir vacationed in Rome
is legendary. The ailing Fanon rarely slept and wanted to take full advantage
of the only moment he had with Sartre in person. See Ronald Hayman, Sartre:
A Biography (1987), 384 and Alice Cherki, Frantz Fanon: A Portrait, trans.
Nadia Benabid (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006).
20. And sometimes one loses much by getting too much, as in another film adapta-
tion of Sartrean themes, the pornographic film, Gerard Damiano’s The Devil
in Miss Jones (1972). The basis of the film was Sartre’s play Huis clos (No
Exit, 1944).
21. Richard Wright, The Outsider (New York: Perennial, 1993).
22. Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, trans. Charles Lamm Markmann
(New York: Grove, 1967), 135.
23. Fanon, Black Skin, 133.
24. Fanon, Black Skin, 133.
25. William R. Jones, “Sartre’s Philosophical Anthropology in Relation to His
Ethics: A Criticism of Selected Critics” (Providence, R.I.: Brown University
Philosophy of Religion Doctoral Dissertation, 1969).
170 Lewis R. Gordon
26. William R. Jones, Is God a White Racist?: A Preamble to Black Theology,
second edition (Boston: Beacon, 1998). This text was originally published in
1973.
27. Angela Y. Davis, “Unfinished Lecture on Liberation—II,” in Angela Davis: A
Primary Reader, ed. with an intro. by Joy Ann James (Oxford, UK: Blackwell,
1998), 53–60; and Robert E. Birt, “Alienation in the Later Philosophy of Jean-
Paul Sartre” (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Doctoral Dissertation in
Philosophy, 1985); “Existence, Identity, and Liberation,” in Existence in Black,
ed. Lewis R. Gordon, 203–14, and Robert Birt (ed.), The Quest for Commu-
nity and Identity: Critical Essays in Africana Social Philosophy (Lanham, Md.:
Rowman and Littlefield, 2002).
28. Goldberg, “The Philosophical Foundations of Racism.”
29. See, Paget Henry, Caliban’s Reason: Introducing Afro-Caribbean Philosophy
(New York: Routledge, 2000).
30. See, Noel Chabani Manganyi, Being-Black-in-the-World (Johannesburg:
Ravan, 1973); and Alienation and the Body in Racist Society: A Study of the
Society that Invented Soweto (New York: NOK, 1977).
31. Steve Bantu Biko, I Write What I Like: Selected Writings, New Edition, fore-
word by Lewis R. Gordon; ed. with a personal memoir by Aelred Stubbs;
preface by Desmond Tuto; intro. by Thoko Mpumlwana (Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 2002).
32. P. Mabogo More, “Universalism and Particularism in South Africa,” Dialogue
and Universalism 5.4 (1995): 34–51; and “Sartre and the Problem of Racism”
(Pretoria: Doctoral Dissertation in Philosophy and Literature, University of
South Africa, 2005).
33. See K. Anthony Appiah, In My Father’s House: Africa in the Philosophy of
Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992); and Cosmopolitanism:
Ethics in a World of Strangers (New York: Norton, 2006).
34. More, “Sartre and the Problem of Racism,” 266.
35. Lewis R. Gordon, “Bad Faith and Antiblack Racism: A Study in the Philos-
ophy of Jean-Paul Sartre” (New Haven: Yale University Dissertation in
Philosophy, 1993); and Bad Faith and Antiblack Racism (Atlantic Highlands,
NJ: Humanities International Press, 1995; Amherst, N.Y.: Humanity, 1999).
36. See some of the authors in Existence in Black, as well as Emily Sook-Kyung
Lee, “Meaning, Creativity and the Visible Differences of the Body: A Phenome-
nological Reading of Race (Maurice Merleau-Ponty)” (Stony Brook: State
University of New York at Stony Brook Doctoral Dissertation in Philosophy,
2005).
37. Lewis R. Gordon, T. Denean Sharlpey-Whiting, and Renée T. White (eds.),
Fanon: A Critical Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996).
38. George Yancy (ed.), What White Looks Like? (New York: Routledge, 2004)
and White on White/Black on Black (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield,
2005),
39. Naomi Zack, Race and Mixed Race (Philadelphia: Temple University Press,
1993).
40. “Pedagogy and the Philosophical Anthropology of African American Slave
Culture,” in Not Only the Master’s Tools: African American Studies in Theory
and Practice, ed. Lewis R. Gordon and Jane Anna Gordon (Boulder, Colo.:
Paradigm, 2005).
41. George Lamming, In the Castle of My Skin, with an intro. by Richard Wright
(New York: Collier, 1970); and Manthia Diawara, In Search of Africa
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998).
 Sartre and Black Existentialism 171

42. The indexes of Not Only the Master’s Tools and A Companion to African
American Studies have many references to Foucault, and discussions of his
work abound in most of the theoretical work in black thought since the mid-
1980s. By contrast, Derrida has been of influence in primarily literary circles,
and there seems to be a decline in the avowal of deconstruction in approaches
to race phenomena on the one hand, while there is a clear rise in “genealog-
ical” approaches. Within Africana philosophy proper, the closest set of
thinkers to deconstruction are those who utilize hermeneutics by way of either
Martin Heidegger, Hans-Georg Gadamer, or Paul Ricoeur or the growing
number of Levinasians in the study of race in “continental” circles. But the
numbers of Africana scholars from those wings is very small, and they have
the least influence in the field. For a critique of Euro-continental philosophy in
Africana thought, see Nelson Maldonado-Torres, “Toward a Critique of
Continental Reason: Africana Studies and the Decolonization of Imperial
Cartographies in the Americas,” in Not Only the Master’s Tools. See also
Kenneth Knies, “The Idea of Post-European Science: An Essay on Phenome-
nology and Africana Studies,” in Not Only the Master’s Tools.
43. David Fryer, “African American Queer Studies,” in A Companion to African
American Studies, ed. with an intro. by Lewis R. Gordon and Jane Anna
Gordon (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2006). Cf. also, Sara Ahmed, Queer
Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others (Durham, N.C.: Duke Univer-
sity Press, 2006).
44. One need not look very far to find the many stabs at Sartre, the Great Father
Figure of twentieth-century French thought. See the many references here and
there in anthologies on the work of Derrida and on Foucault. See also
Jonathan Judaken’s insightful study, Jean-Paul Sartre and the Jewish Question:
Anti-antisemitism and the Politics of the French Intellectual (Lincoln: Univer-
sity of Nebraska Press, 2006).
45. For Foucault on Racism, see, for e.g., his discussion of state negotiation of
racial relations in “Society Must Be Defended”: Lectures at the College de
France, 1975–1976, trans. David Macey (New York: Picador/St. Martin’s,
2003). See also Ellen K. Feder, Family Bonds: Genealogies of Race and Gender
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2007).
46. The argument is familiar to the point of banal. See its various references in
The Philosophy of Jean-Paul Sartre (Library of Living Philosophers 16), ed.
Paul Arthur Schilpp (La Salle, Ill.: Open Court, 1981), especially the chapter
by Risieri Frondizi, “Sartre’s Early Ethics: A Critique,” 371–91. Even Alfred
Schutz, who is often more careful and offers nuance in his reading of other
thinkers, interprets Sartre as advancing a psychological argument against
sociality. See Alfred Schutz, Collected Papers I: The Problem of Social Reality,
ed. and intro. by Maurice Natanson, with a preface by H. L. van Breda (The
Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1962).
47. Sartre, Being and Nothingness, 545.
48. Lewis R. Gordon, Fanon and the Crisis of European Man: An Essay on
Philosophy and the Human Sciences (New York: Routledge, 1995), chapters 2
and 3.
49. For more discussion, see Lewis R. Gordon, Existentia Africana, fourth chapter,
“What Does It Man to Be a Problem?,” (New York: Routledge, 2000), 62–95.
50. See Friedrich Nietzsche, “The Birth of Tragedy” and Other Writings, trans.
Ronald Speirs, ed. Raymond Geuss and Ronald Speirs (Cambridge, UK:
Cambridge University Press, 1999).
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 Chapter 8

Sartre and South African Apartheid

Mabogo P. More

Nothing rouses the anger of Sartre more than institutional racialism;

had he accepted the Nobel Prize in 1964, he would have donated the
money to the Anti-Apartheid Movement.
—Howard Davies, Sartre and “Les Temps Modernes”

Those who are confronting apartheid should know they are not alone.*
—Jean-Paul Sartre

Describing racism as the form of “hatred for the other . . . endowed with
the greatest virulence,” Bernard-Henri Lévy in his controversial book: Sartre:
The Philosopher of the Twentieth Century, concludes that “there is not, and
will not be for a long time, a better counter-fire to that hatred than a return
to the discourse which says in substance . . . existence precedes essence;
essence has no existence.”1 For Lévy, therefore, Sartre provides us with effec-
tive tools for countering racism. Indeed, Sartre’s commitment to freedom and
his numerous texts on colonialism, racism, and antisemitism2 had consider-
able impact on many South Africans whose lives were directly impacted by
the oppression of apartheid. His philosophy thus became a source of
personal, philosophical, and political inspiration for South African thinkers
such as Steve Biko, Noel Chabani Manganyi, and Richard Turner.3
The aim of this chapter is to demonstrate Sartre’s impact on the philo-
sophical and political thoughts and practices of these thinkers. My
contention is that by providing the necessary conceptual tools, philosophical
insights, and political vision to the antiapartheid struggle of black thinkers
and activists within the Black Consciousness Movement, Sartre contributed
to the ultimate demise of the apartheid system. The main focus in this
chapter will be on Steve Biko, for the simple reason that he ranks next to

*Jean-Paul Sartre, “Those Who Are Confronting Apartheid Should Know That
They Are Not Alone” (1966). Press Statement. French Liaison Committee against
Apartheid, http:// www.anc.org.za/un/sartre.html

173
174 Mabogo P. More

Nelson Mandela in popularity not only as an icon of the struggle against

racism, but also because his writings exhibit explicit Sartrean existentialist
influences that contain categories and political problematics that Biko recon-
figured and applied to the South African situation. These included Sartre’s
understanding of freedom, consciousness, identity, authenticity, bad faith,
the critique of liberalism, and the issue of collective moral responsibility. It
is the latter issue together with its correlate notions and its applicability to
the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) that will be
the focus of this chapter. The concern here is to locate Sartre’s and Biko’s
conceptualizations of moral responsibility within the context of the TRC’s
discourse.

Sartre on Moral Responsibility

Western moral philosophy has generally restricted the realm of moral
appraisal to actions produced by a rational, intentional act of will. This
tendency can be traced back to Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics in which
he discusses the conditions under which we can hold someone responsible
for his or her behavior; for example, voluntary or coerced actions. Modern
existentialist theories of responsibility have extended Aristotle’s theory to
include issues not only of individual responsibility but also collective moral
responsibility in contexts of oppression and violations of human and group
rights. The latter theories owe a great deal to Karl Jaspers’s attempt to deter-
mine and differentiate German guilt following the crimes of the Nazi period.
Jaspers distinguishes between metaphysical guilt and criminal, political, and
moral responsibility. He insists, for example, that metaphysical guilt involves
absolute solidarity with the human being as such, because “There exists a
solidarity among men as human beings that makes each coresponsible for
every wrong and every injustice in the world.”4 Different as these might be,
they are all interconnected since “Every concept of guilt demonstrates (or
manifests) realities, the consequence of which appear in the sphere of the
other concepts of guilt.”5 Sartre acknowledged that his view on collective
responsibility owes much to Jaspers’s The Question of German Guilt.6
Just as was Nazism, apartheid qua colonial system was an evil to an
extreme degree. Such evil systems raise, for Sartre, a whole range of moral,
political, and social questions that traditional moral philosophy does not
often address. How, for example, can moral responsibility for such atrocious
systems be appraised? Sartre held an ontological theory of “absolute
freedom” and its complement, a theory of radical responsibility. “I am
absolutely free and absolutely responsible for my situation,”7 he maintained.
He argued that since we are all condemned to freedom, each one of us “car-
ries the weight of the whole world on his shoulders; he is responsible for the
 Sartre and South African Apartheid 175

world and for himself as a way of being.”8 This ontological conception of

responsibility has its origin as early as The Emotions: Outline of a Theory, in
which Sartre stated that “for human reality, to exist is always to assume its
being, that is, to be responsible for it instead of receiving it from the outside
like a stone.”9 But in the light of his explicit declaration that ontology
“cannot formulate ethical precepts,” that we cannot derive an ought (moral
imperative) from an is (ontological indicative), Sartre accordingly proffers a
somewhat value-neutral definition of responsibility as “consciousness (of)
being the incontestable author of an event or of an object.”10
The is/ought distinction has plagued the phenomenological ontology of
both Heidegger and Sartre. In spite of the fact that both take this distinction
seriously in their work, they fail to maintain it. For their ontologies are
replete with ethical implications. As a result, even though Sartre, for example,
defines “responsibility” in nonmoral terms, the concept, especially in his polit-
ical essays, increasingly became an ethical concept that signified ascription of
blame, accountability, or culpability. A few examples will suffice to demon-
strate this point. First, in response to the charge of subjectivism, Sartre
offered the essence of his concept of responsibility: “When we say that man is
responsible for himself, we do not mean that he is responsible only for his
own individuality, but that he is responsible for all men.”11In other words,
responsibility is here broadened to be inclusive of others. For “in choosing
himself he chooses for all men.”12 Any attempt to evade our responsibility
constitutes bad faith. As Ronald Santoni indicates, because human beings are
free and correlatively responsible in the ontological sense of “pre-reflective
ontological responsibility,” they can be assumed free and responsible in the
more mundane (ontic) senses of “reflective, ethical responsibility.”13 This
shift from the ontological to the ontic, from the “pre-reflective” to the “reflec-
tive” sense of responsibility remains “a basic premise of Sartre’s later thought,
especially when he turns to political polemics.”14
It is at the level of the political and moral that Sartre’s views acquired a
greater Jasperian ascription of responsibility for atrocities such as racism,
colonialism, and antisemitism. Sartre’s postwar writings are infused with his
abhorrence of the French bourgeoisie, the antisemite, the white racist, the
colonizer or settler, and liberal democrats. It is to these that his concepts of
collective moral responsibility and bad faith are directed. In “The Purpose of
Writing” Sartre blames French society for the tortures, murders, and rapes
committed by the French soldiers during the Algerian War:

The whole of French society is responsible for the Algerian War, and for the
way it is being conducted (torture, internment camps, etc.)—the whole of the
society, including the men and women who have never stopped protesting
against it. We are inextricably involved . . . both responsible and complicit.15
176 Mabogo P. More

Positions such as these trigger a number of contentious questions about the

ascription of moral responsibility. How wide can the web of responsibility
be cast? To what extent, if at all, can we hold individual members of a group
collectively responsible for group-based harms in situations where they did
not directly participate or cause the harm? Are members of a group individ-
ually and collectively responsible in situations where, despite the fact that
they knew what was happening, they nonetheless failed to do anything to
stop the harm? Sartre replies in the affirmative to all these questions.
He goes against the grain of traditional Western philosophical moral
sensibility by expanding the moral landscape to an all-inclusive domain
that constitutes collectives into moral agents. Commenting on the violence
during the Indo-Chinese war, Sartre, in What Is Literature? had this to say:
“If you say nothing, you are necessarily for the continuation of the war;
one is always responsible for what one does not try to prevent.”16 Hence, to
choose to do nothing in the face of human suffering and oppression is to
participate in the infliction of that suffering and oppression and therefore
to be responsible for it. For, as a free being, I am required by my very
freedom to demand and will the freedom of others. In other words, inaction
to overthrow oppression is, for Sartre, “collaborationist” precisely because it
makes it clear that one finds the status quo permissible or acceptable; “if I
did not find it permissible, I would be resisting in some fashion or other.”17
Hence in his “A More Precise Characterization of Existentialism”— an
explicit move from ontological responsibility to ontic responsibility—Sartre
makes it clear that “existentialism is not a mournful delectation but a
humanist philosophy of action, effort, combat, and solidarity.”18
The suggestion of the ontological sense of responsibility—very similar
to Jaspers’s “metaphysical guilt”— is that each human being bears the
responsibility not only for his or her own being but also for his or her fellow
human beings. The ontic consequence of this ontological position defines the
width of moral responsibility cast by Sartre on matters of oppression. His
response to the question of moral responsibility for oppression casts the
moral complicity wide enough to include those, to use Ronald Aronson’s
phrase “Who Oppose Apartheid, ‘But’ ” in addition to “those who command
and act; those who carry it out; those who are actively complicit (in several
ways and degrees).”19 All these are guilty of Sartrean individual and collec-
tive bad faith and, accordingly, morally responsible for the atrocities and evil
committed in their name.
Clearly, a rigorous philosophical application of the discourse of “respon-
sibility” would require mapping out the conceptual landscape associated
with it. What kind of responsibility is Sartre appealing to here? Is causality
or authorship the relevant concern? What about related concepts such as
 Sartre and South African Apartheid 177

“accountability,” “imputability,” “blame,” “excuse,” “taint,” or “guilt”? For

the Sartre of Being and Nothingness, freedom implies the burden of respon-
sibility: “The peculiar character of human reality is that it is without
excuse.” However, Sartre also speaks of “situation” and later, of “objective
possibility,” “the system,” “the exigency of the situation,” “historical envi-
ronment,” or “external necessity.”

Biko on Moral Responsibility

It is precisely in the ethical realm that the existentialist influence of Sartre,
mediated through Karl Jaspers and Fanon, emerged in Biko’s thinking.
Sartre’s preface to Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, for example, evidently
had a great impact on Biko’s view of moral responsibility. For it is in that
text where Sartre accuses Europeans, especially the French, for “being the
accomplice in the crime of colonialism.”20 It is also here that Sartre responds
to Camus’s protest that he be “neither executioner nor victim”:

Very well then, if you’re not victims when the government which you’ve voted
for, when the army in which your younger brothers are serving without hesi-
tation or remorse have undertaken race murder, you are, without a shadow of
doubt, executioners. . . . With us [Europeans], to be a man is to be an accom-
plice to colonialism, since all of us without exception have profited by colonial
exploitation.21

Biko begins his ascription of moral responsibility on this Sartrean note,

directed primarily against white liberals. “It may perhaps surprise some
people,” he writes, “that I should talk of whites in a collective sense when in
fact it is a particular section—i.e., the government—that carries out this
unwarranted vendetta against blacks.”22 In his view, whites are collectively
responsible for at least three reasons: First, the apartheid government’s
“immorality and naked cruelty [is] done in the name of white people.”23
Second, the whites are responsible for putting the apartheid regime in power:

There are those whites who will completely disclaim responsibility for the
country’s inhumanity to the black man. These are the people who are governed
by logic for 41⁄2 years but by fear at election time. The Nationalist party has per-
haps many more English votes than one imagines. All whites collectively recog-
nize in it a strong bastion against the highly played-up swart gevaar [Black
peril]. . . . Thus if whites in general do not like what is happening to the black
people, they have the power in them to stop it here and now. We on the other
hand, have every reason to bundle them together and blame them jointly.”24
178 Mabogo P. More

Finally, whites remain in the country precisely because they benefit from the
oppression of black people. Hence, the very fact that even the so-called
“disgruntled whites remain [in the country] to enjoy the fruits of the system
would alone be enough to condemn them at Nuremberg.”25 The similarity
between Biko and Sartre is here remarkable as Sartre’s comment on the
Algerian situation indicates:

But we vote, we give mandates and, in any way we can, revoke them; the stir-
ring of public opinion can bring down governments. We personally must be
accomplices to the crimes that are committed in our name, since it is within our
power to stop them. We have to take responsibility for this guilt which was dor-
mant in us, inert, foreign, and demean ourselves in order to be able to bear it.26

The Sartrean and Bikoan broad ascription of moral responsibility raises, as

we mentioned earlier, numerous questions about complicity for the evils of
apartheid.
It shall be recalled that one of Sartre’s main targets in the Portrait of the
Antisemite is the liberal democrat. It is the latter’s perverted Western
humanism whose principle of universality provides a veiled moral, polit-
ical, and economic justification for racism and pillage that Sartre denounced
because it fails to recognize Jewish difference. The tendency of Western
humanism to collude with colonialism and its racist practices led Sartre to
conclude that “Humanism is the counterpart of racism: it is a practice of
exclusion.”27
In a similar fashion, Biko’s obsession is with white liberals and Leftists,28
“that curious bunch of nonconformists who explain their participation in
negative terms; that bunch of do-gooders that goes under all sorts of
names—liberals, leftists etc;”29 those “Who Oppose Apartheid, ‘But,’ ”30 and
in Albert Memmi’s phrase, “the colonizer who refuses” or “the benevolent
colonizer.”31 These, according to Biko, “are the people who argue that they
are not responsible for white racism and the country’s ‘inhumanity to the
black man.’ ”32 In the process, they attempt to reduce the South African
problem into a “black problem” rather than a problem of “white racism . . .
[which] rests squarely on the laps of the white society.”33 Putting aside the
stubborn, white South African racist, it is the white liberals who consistently
denied responsibility for black oppression through “deliberate evasive-
ness,”34 or what Sartre famously names “bad faith.”
But, such white liberals cannot escape moral responsibility for apartheid
because, qua members of the white South African community, they enjoyed
a privileged position and they were aware of this. Therefore, Biko argued, no
white person can be absolved from this “metaphysical guilt.” “Thus in the
ultimate analysis,” Biko concludes, “no white person can escape being part
 Sartre and South African Apartheid 179

of the oppressor camp.”35 His belief in collective moral responsibility is

made even more evident by his citation of Karl Jaspers:

There exists among men, because they are men, a solidarity through which
each shares responsibility for every injustice and every wrong committed in the
world, and especially for crimes that are committed in his presence or of which
he cannot be ignorant.36

How wide can or should moral responsibility be cast, given that some
whites—for example, Ruth First, Bram Fisher, or Neil Aggett—paid the ulti-
mate price fighting against apartheid? Biko’s argument is premised on the
fact that apartheid is systemically evil. For this reason, his moral net covers
a wide range because, like Jaspers and Sartre, he contends that all those
who created, planned, and ordered it are responsible for it; all those who
carried it out are responsible; all those who accepted it and allowed it to
happen are responsible; all those who were silent about it and pretended
not to know are responsible for it; and more importantly, all those who, in
whatever way, benefited from the system are responsible for the atrocities
perpetrated in its name. Whether they liked it or not, all whites benefited not
only from the system but also by virtue of being members of the dominant
white group, “the color of his skin—[was] his passport to privilege.”37So,
despite the fact that they fought against the system, they still are responsible
for it. This view finds support from even the grandchild of the architect of
apartheid, Wilhelm Verwoerd. According to him, “Even those whites who
opposed apartheid are beneficiaries, because they were also members of a
group that was systematically, unjustly privileged in terms of access to land,
capital etc.”38Besides, if whites did not like what was happening to blacks,
according to Biko, they possessed enough power collectively to stop black
suffering. Since they did not, he concludes, “We . . . have every reason to
bundle them together and blame them jointly.”39
Biko thus maintained that no white person in South Africa can claim
that he or she did not know or was not “aware” of what was happening in
the country. As he puts it, “Basically, the South African white community is
a homogeneous community. It is a community of people who sit to enjoy a
privileged position that they do not deserve, are aware of this, and therefore
spend their time trying to justify why they are doing so.”40 This state of
unawareness is what Sartre aptly calls “the state of false ignorance”41
imposed on the citizens by the regime but in which the citizens themselves
contribute in order to ensure their peace of mind and quell their consciences.
In spite of every effort by the apartheid regime to suppress the truth from
reaching the public domain, almost everybody — through the few coura-
geous media reports — knew about the death in detentions of prisoners,
180 Mabogo P. More

torture, apartheid army occupation of the townships, and bombing of so-

called terrorists in neighboring states such as Lesotho or Botswana. If some
white South Africans did not read the newspapers or were illiterate, they
knew people who read them. Even those who had not heard of the atroci-
ties committed in their name, heard the accounts of white police, reservists,
or soldiers—their brothers, cousins, fathers, uncles, relatives, friends, neigh-
bors, or acquaintances — who returned home and spoke about it. The
international and public attention the 1960 Sharpville Massacre, the 1976
Soweto Student Riots, the death in detention of many activists (including
Biko himself), and many other incidents problematize any claim or excuse of
ignorance. Debunking the French citizens’ appeal to ignorance during the
Algerian war, Sartre commented:

False naiveté, flight, bad faith, solitude, silence, a complicity at once rejected
and accepted, that is what we called, in 1945, collective responsibility. There
was no way the German people, at the time, could feign ignorance of the
camps. . . . We were right, they did know everything, and it is only today that
we can understand because we too know everything.42

Similarly, many white South Africans appeal to the argument from ignorance
because of the strict racial separation enforced by the apartheid regime. This
excuse is the most popular form of bad faith prevalent in South Africa today.
Like the inauthentic Jews in Sartre’s Portrait of the Antisemite,43 Biko’s
moral net covers the complicity of black people who participated in their
own oppression, those who were “participants in the white man’s game of
holding the aspirations of the black people.”44 These are the “people who
deliberately allowed themselves into an unholy collusion with the enemy,”45
black leaders who are “subconsciously siding and abetting in the total subju-
gation of the black people.”46 The black person who has to be constantly
reminded of “his complicity in the crime of allowing himself to be misused
and therefore letting evil reign supreme in the country of his birth.”47 Thus,
as Hegel reminds us, to the extent that a slave acquiesces in slavery, he or she
is responsible for the slavish situation. Hence, the black policeman and
woman, black Special Branch Agent, black civil servant, black teacher, and
particularly apartheid-created Homeland (Bantustan) leader, were all
directly responsible for perpetuating and propping up the apartheid
machinery. These then are the people whom Biko and his comrades
contemptuously labeled as nonwhites because of their collaboration with the
oppressive apartheid system. Barring those who consciously and actively
collaborated with the regime, those who were at once victims and beneficia-
ries, Biko’s net did not leave out “Those Blacks Who Suffered, ‘But.’ ” They
also were morally responsible for letting it happen.
 Sartre and South African Apartheid 181

One of the major difficulties with Biko’s (and Sartre’s) concept of collec-
tive responsibility is that it seems to fluctuate freely between moral or
political responsibility and the existentialist conception of ontological
responsibility that Jaspers refers to as “metaphysical guilt.” It is this confla-
tion of responsibility that accounts for Biko’s sweeping ascription of moral
responsibility and guilt for the evils of apartheid. Ontological responsibility,
as Biko himself recognizes, assumes that there is a solidarity among human
beings that constitutes each one of us as responsible “for every injustice and
every wrong committed in the world” against humankind, because in
choosing for myself I am at the same time choosing for all human beings.
Moral responsibility, on the other hand, involves blameworthiness and
praise for actions performed or not performed. Put differently, moral respon-
sibility involves answerability and accountability for one’s choices and
actions. To apply, therefore, criteria relating to ontological responsibility to
cases of moral responsibility, as both Biko and Sartre do, entails overlooking
questions concerning degrees of responsibility, which are pertinent in deter-
mining moral blame. The responsibility of persons as citizens is not, as
Aronson contends, only an ontological fact, but a social and historical one
as well. To that extent, human beings cannot always be equally responsible
for acts performed by their leaders and rulers. Surely, those who create, plan,
and order, differ in degrees of responsibility from those who execute the
orders, or those who merely accept and allow it to happen and those who are
silent or ignorant or merely indifferent to suffering. Ontological responsi-
bility does not allow this moral gradation and thus is subject to the criticism
that if everyone is equally responsible then no one is responsible. Despite this
limitation, the next section aims at applying Sartre’s and Biko’s conceptual-
izations of moral responsibility to an actual historical event: South Africa’s
Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC)

If I have belabored the issue of moral responsibility, it is for the simple
reason that it has a direct bearing on the Truth and Reconciliation Commis-
sion (TRC) that was conducted in South Africa from 1996 to 1998. In
January 1996 President Nelson Mandela launched the TRC under the lead-
ership of Archbishop Desmond Tutu. The TRC was a transitional statutory
body constituted by the Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act
(1995) to promote justice through the process of uncovering past violations
(from 1960 to 1994) of human rights and to create the necessary conditions
for achieving national reconciliation. In other words, part of its brief was
to promote racial reconciliation. The two operative concepts of this process
were the pursuit of “justice” and the achievement of national, but more
182 Mabogo P. More

precisely, racial “reconciliation” since apartheid, to use Derrida’s phrase, was

“racism’s last word” (1985).
More often than not, the reconciliation exercise is conducted for political
purposes. The absence of a clear winner or loser in the South African
conflict, for instance, led to the compromise reached at the Convention for a
Democratic South Africa (CODESA), a compromise having as its direct
product the “promotion of national reconciliation” at the expense of “social
justice.” In this compromise, the apartheid regime relinquished political
power while keeping economic power in a transitional arrangement that
accorded the apartheid masters and functionaries immunity from charges
of torture and murder.48 This arrangement was similar in many respects to
the one reached with Pinochet in Chile where the concept of “reconciliation”
become popular as a political instrument during a transitory period.
Certain obvious problems arise in an arrangement of this sort that, in
my view, would have militated against its acceptance by Biko or Sartre
given their insistence on the all-inclusive culpability of South African whites
in the violation of human rights. First, there is a tendency in arrangements
such as the TRC to individualize systems of oppression such as colonialism
and apartheid to certain prominent representatives. It reduces a whole
system of oppression to the representatives—for example, P. W. Botha in
South Africa, or General Pinochet in Chile and their numerous functionaries.
As a consequence, all those who supported it, those who allowed it to
happen through their silence, those who claim ignorance of atrocities
committed in their name, and all those who benefited from the system, are
exonerated from responsibility for the system. But, as Sartre, in his insightful
“Colonialism is a System,” explains:

When we talk of the “colonial system,” we must be clear about what we mean.
It is not an abstract mechanism. The system exists, it functions; the infernal
cycle of colonialism is a reality. But the reality is embodied in a million
colonists, children and grandchildren of colonists, who have been shaped by
colonialism and who think, speak and act according to the very principle of
the colonial system.49

The significance of the concept of “the system” in the above citation and its
relation to moral responsibility should not be overlooked. For it appears
with regularity in a number of Sartre’s anticolonial articles published in Situ-
ation V (Colonialism and Neocolonialism). As Thomas Flynn observes,
Sartre’s intention in these articles was “to move the stolid bourgeoisie to
admit its complicity in the dirty work of colonial warfare.”50 A similar
conception prompted Biko and the Black Consciousness advocates to refer to
apartheid and its complex mechanisms as “the system.” The point is that
 Sartre and South African Apartheid 183

under such “systems” everyone defending, perpetuating, reproducing, partic-

ipating in, and benefiting from the system is responsible for it and its
atrocities. In other words, both the perpetrators and the beneficiaries are
morally responsible for the system.
Contrary to the Bikoan thesis of metaphysical responsibility for
apartheid, the TRC has tended to absolve the beneficiaries from responsi-
bility. By focusing almost entirely on the notorious state agents who
committed gross human rights violations (e.g., the Vlakplaas assassin,
Eugene de Kok)51 and the counterviolence of liberation fighters like some in
the African National Congress, the TRC consciously ignored the connection
between perpetrators and beneficiaries of the apartheid system. Since
apartheid was a form of colonialism, in Mamdani’s view, it also inevitably
promoted a particular arrangement of privilege such that a link between
racialized power and racialized privilege forges.52 To repress the “privileged”
status of whites in apartheid South Africa would be, as Biko constantly
argued, an obvious expression of Sartrean bad faith. By concentrating on the
minority of perpetrators to the total exclusion of the beneficiaries of the
system is to absolve them from responsibility. Such a move denies Sartre’s
and Biko’s ascription of moral responsibility and was explicitly railed
against by both of them.
One of the consequences of the TRC hearings was that it inadvertently
became a rescue operation for the beneficiaries of apartheid privileges,
hence, “the harmful lack of commitment shown by many apartheid benefi-
ciaries [read white South Africans].”53 This “lack of commitment” is an
expression of the widespread refusal by the majority of white South Africans
to “face the fact of being apartheid beneficiaries,” that is, the bad faith
refusal to accept moral responsibility for the atrocities of apartheid and the
benefits accruing there from. Bemoaning this clear expression of Sartrean
bad faith, Verwoerd has this to say about white South Africans:

Many [white South Africans] . . . display a shocking lack of historical aware-

ness. They prefer to see their own and their parents’ educational achievements
(“human capital”), good health, and wealth as purely the product of hard
work, as something they deserve. Thus they conveniently forget or underesti-
mate the role of a midwife called apartheid.54

The upshot of Verwoerd’s complaint is that many whites denied and

continue to deny their “responsibility arising from systematic past privi-
leging.”55
The second problem with the TRC is that, just as there are evident prob-
lems about its exclusion of beneficiaries from moral blame, there are also
serious problems with the meaning of “reconciliation” and its relation to
184 Mabogo P. More

what Verwoerd calls “lack of historical awareness” by whites. Truth commis-

sions are about what happened and who is responsible for it, morally, politi-
cally, or sometimes even legally. To most whites, however—that in Sartre’s
eyes would constitute a consummate case of bad faith—reconciliation has
come to mean blacks pretending that history did not happen as it did: that
there was no seizure of African land through colonial wars of conquest. Their
understanding of reconciliation, as Mosala points out, “is based on a cold-
blooded exclusion of the history of alienation.”56 Also, it means that some
white organizations and institutions would proclaim their remorse about the
past and the status quo would continue unhindered. In the words of a white
South African Independent Newspaper journalist, Shaun Johnson, “Black
South Africa is looking for serious signs from the White community. What
they are getting is a back to business attitude.”57 Black people’s perspective
on reconciliation, on the contrary, is predicated on an understanding and
appreciation of the history of their alienation: from the land, livestock, labor,
their culture, their brothers and sisters, and themselves.
Above, we noted that for Sartre, colonialism is a system governed by its
own internal logic. The main aspect of the logic of this system is the occu-
pation and appropriation of the land by the colonizers, the exploitation of
the natives at starvation rates and then, with mechanization, the taking from
the natives their very right to work. Historically, black people in South
Africa have been subject to systematic and brutal dispossession of their land,
the basic means of production, and finally the control of their labor. It is
these that have been alienated from black people. Reconciliation, from this
perspective, therefore, means a transcendence of alienation by being recon-
ciled with the land, livestock, property, and self, which was at the heart of
Biko’s Black Consciousness message. On the basis of these considerations, it
seems reasonable that Biko would have at least demanded the restoration of
land to black people, an issue he was passionate about, and reparation for
certain wrongs as a means of transcending black alienation and achieving
reconciliation. Without these conditions being met, Biko would consider the
black condition as fundamentally still an oppressive one. The notion of
reconciliation, as Mosala states, “is synonymous with the idea of liberation,
if not more fundamental to it.”58
The third problem with the TRC is the dominance of the liberal paradigm
that emphasizes human rights and democracy to the exclusion of the
demands for fundamental transformation. Biko would have experienced
difficulties, not with the concept of human rights, but with its application
prior to the leveling of the playing field involving the issue of the equitable
distribution of wealth and the restoration of the appropriated land to its
legitimate indigenous African owners. It is this liberal paradigm emphasizing
human rights that facilitated the immediate and eager adoption of the
 Sartre and South African Apartheid 185

Freedom Charter as a model for the country’s constitution before the reso-
lution of the national question, namely the land question, for which the
struggle for national liberation was in fact originally waged. In adopting a
constitutional framework in which the Bill of Rights is enshrined (espe-
cially the right to property), old relations of production as well as the extant
unequal structure of ownership, especially the land, was reinforced.
Another problem, as Ibbo Mandaza argues, is that reconciliation is a
product of a weak petit bourgeoisie “only too content to forgive as the neces-
sary price for attaining the class goal after so many years of struggle,
imprisonment and self-denial. Reconciliation is the forgiveness of the small
elite that inherits state power without the fulfillment of social justice for the
majority.”59In other words, reconciliation is the lament of the weak, the
fact that it is asserted from a seemingly moral and political position of
superiority and strength notwithstanding. In the long run, such reconcilia-
tory arrangements, as the skewed power relations between the ANC and
the apartheid regime in the CODESA agreement amply demonstrate, end
up sacrificing the imperative of social justice in favor of “national unity.”
The result is that the major issue that the commission did not touch was not
that between “truth” and “reconciliation” but between “justice” and “recon-
ciliation.” Reconciliation need not necessarily be the direct consequence of
truth. As Mamdani problematizes it in his critique of the TRC in South
Africa: “Is reconciliation an inevitable outcome of truth telling? Is it also not
possible that the more truth comes to light—and the less justice is seen to
be done — the more truth may breed outrage amongst the majority
[oppressed] and fear in the minority?”60

The State of Racism after Sartre and Biko in South Africa

What then is the state of racism in South Africa after Sartre, Fanon, and
Biko? For starters, there have been remarkable successes undoing apartheid
but a debilitating failure on the racism front. In the “new,” postapartheid
South Africa, it is extremely difficult to find someone who did not oppose
apartheid.61 For most English-speaking white liberals, for example, apartheid
was not of their own making; they neither introduced nor supported it. Since
it was an Afrikaner invention, they find it difficult to accept responsibility for
it, despite the fact that they benefited from it. For the Afrikaans-speaking and
other whites, since apartheid is dead, so is racism. What both groups ignore is
that one can oppose apartheid qua institutional racism as wrong while still
being convinced of black inferiority. Still, one can equally regard apartheid as
unfair while denying that other kinds of racial exclusion are unfair. Hence,
the demise of apartheid qua institutional or legal racism does not entail the
transcendence of individual or even subliminal racism. To this extent, Sartre’s
186 Mabogo P. More

fight against apartheid, as our epigraphs testify, has been a success. But only
to the extent that apartheid qua formal institutional racism is dead can we
say that Sartre won the battle and not the war.
Germany has accepted and taken collective responsibility for the Holo-
caust. This responsibility is expressed by what the Germans themselves call
weidergutmaching, meaning “making good again” or simply restitution. For
this, Germany paid approximately DM100 billion to Holocaust survivors, a
sum that is likely to increase for at least the coming two decades. This policy
is the result of the Germans taking collective moral responsibility for their
past. Unlike the Germans, most white South Africans are denying collective
moral responsibility for apartheid partly because of the TRC’s unwillingness
to deal with the issue of white moral culpability for the system. This unwill-
ingness has, as Chris Landsberg notes, left “an undeconstructed and unrecon-
structed South Africa.”62 It is undeconstructed precisely because there is a
failure to realize just how much in the postapartheid era the racist order still
exists. This is nicely summarized by Ali Mazrui’s crisp remark in a 1998
speech in Cape Town when he said of the CODESA compromise: “You wear
the crown, we’ll keep the jewels.” South Africa remains unreconstructed
because despite black political domination (wearing the crown), the country
still remains, economically, socially, culturally, intellectually, and even reli-
giously, white dominated (keeping the jewels).
Both Biko’s and Sartre’s conceptions of moral responsibility provide a
foundational critique of the TRC for failing to take into account the bad
faith of the privileged liberals and the beneficiaries of apartheid oppression.
While this may have been the correct thing to do within the adopted frame-
work and context of a liberal constitutional arrangement such as the South
African one, the release from moral responsibility is contrary to Sartre’s
many discussions of bad faith and Biko’s discussion of white evasiveness. In
their respective critiques of the liberal democrat, both Biko and Sartre
expose not only the bankruptcy of liberal democratic models as enshrined in
the TRC process and the constitution of the “new” South Africa, but also the
dilemmas that any theory of liberation must necessarily confront. The
failure to deal with the question of complicity in the crime of apartheid has
left things as they used to be and still are. As President Thabo Mbeki puts
it, today South Africa is still largely a society of “The Two Nations” one
white and rich and the other black and poor.
This failure of the TRC process has not escaped the keen and critical eye
of observers of the South African situation such as Lewis Gordon. He
deplores the anti-Bikoan way in which the TRC unsurprisingly handled the
complicity of white liberals in particular and the white community in
general. In his view, the TRC proceedings have revealed a lived reality that is
painful and bitter for blacks. These proceedings,
 Sartre and South African Apartheid 187

Reveal how desperately South Africa wanted to prevent white flight; they
reveal that the global market is heavily racially inflected; lurking beneath the
undercurrents of transition in South Africa is the fear that the economy is the
baby that could be lost with the white bath water. Whites thus walk the streets
of South Africa as a precious commodity.63

It is this reality, Gordon concludes, that has a devastating effect on the

consciousness of black South Africans.
Although Sartre’s suggested solutions (moral radical conversion, violence,
socialism, or even concrete liberalism) to the problem of racism contained
some ideological, moral, and political weaknesses, his philosophical theories
and political concerns about racism had a tremendous impact on the
thinking and actions of those greatly affected by the phenomenon. Black
existential philosophers, most of whom were directly or indirectly influenced
by Sartre’s philosophy, have made it their philosophical project to articulate
the existential realities of black people in the antiblack world in which they
live. This project involves revealing the alienation of black people, bringing
it to their consciousness, and thereby, hopefully, moving them to collective
action and transformation of their situation. For these thinkers, psycholog-
ical freedom and political freedom are inextricably bound together even
though they may not be identical. There can be no true political and social
liberation without a liberated consciousness, just as there can be no libera-
tion of consciousness separate from the total struggle for social and political
liberation. The work of Frantz Fanon, Lewis Gordon, Robert Birt, Lucius
Outlaw, Kwame Toure (aka Stockely Carmichael), Noel Chabani Manganyi,
and Steve Biko, to name just a few, bear special testimony to this project.
Sartre’s contribution to the destruction of apartheid, mediated through the
courageous political and intellectual efforts of Biko and the Black
Consciousness Movement, therefore, is beyond question, a project that has
ongoing relevance in postapartheid South Africa.

Notes
1. Bernard-Henri Lévy, Sartre: The Philosopher of the Twentieth Century, trans.
Andrew Brown (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2003), 300.
2. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Black Orpheus,” trans. John MacCombie, in “What Is Liter-
ature?” and Other Essays (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988);
“Preface” in Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance
Farrington (New York: Grove, 1968); “Introduction,” trans. Lawrence Hoey, in
Albert Memmi, The Colonizer and the Colonized (New York: Orion, 1965);
The Respectful Prostitute, trans. Loinel Abel, in No Exit and Three Other
Plays (New York: Vintage, 1989); “Return From the United States,” trans. T.
Denean Sharpley-Whiting, in Lewis R. Gordon ed., Existence in Black (New
York: Routledge, 1997); Portrait of the Antisemite (Réflexions sur la question
juive), trans. Erik de Mauny (London: Secker & Warburg, 1948), popularly
188 Mabogo P. More
translated as Antisemite and Jew, trans. George Becker (New York: Schocken,
1948). In this chapter the Erik de Mauny translation will be used; Colonialism
and Neocolonialism, trans. Azzedine Haddour, Steve Brewer, and Terry
McWilliams (London: Routledge, 2001).
3. For a lengthy discussion of the influence of Sartre on Biko and Manganyi, see
my “Biko: The Africana Existentialist Philosopher” Alternation 11. 1 (2004):
79–108; and my “Reaching For the Primordial: Anti-Survivalist Themes in
Fanon and Gordon” in Marina Paola Banchetti-Robino and Clevis Ronald
Headley, eds., Shifting the Geography of Reason: Gender, Science, and Reli-
gion, selected proceedings from the First Annual Meeting of the Caribbean
Philosophical Association (Newcastle-Upon-Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2007).
4. Karl Jaspers “The Question of German Guilt,” in N. J. Kritz, ed., Transitional
Justice vol. 1 (Washington, D.C.: United States Institute of Peace Press, 1995),
159.
5. Jaspers, “The Question of German Guilt,” 160.
6. For this admission, see Thomas R. Flynn, Sartre and Marxist Existentialism
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986), 209–10, n.17.
7. Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans. Hazel E. Barnes (New York:
Philosophical Library, 1956), 509.
8. Sartre, Being and Nothingness, 553.
9. Jean-Paul Sartre, The Emotions: Outline of a Theory, trans. Bernard
Frechtman (New York: Philosophical Library, 1948), 12.
10. Sartre, Being and Nothingness, 553.
11. Jean-Paul Sartre, Existentialism and Humanism, trans. Philip Mairet (London:
Methuen, 1966), 29.
12. Sartre, Existentialism and Humanism, 29.
13. Ronald E. Santoni, Bad Faith, Good Faith and Authenticity in Sartre’s Early
Philosophy (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1995), 130.
14. Flynn, Sartre and Marxist Existentialism, 7.
15. Jean-Paul Sartre, Between Existentialism and Marxism, trans. John Mathews
(New York: Pantheon, 1974), 25.
16. Sartre, “What Is Literature?” and other Essays, 232.
17. Linda A. Bell, Sartre’s Ethics of Authenticity (Tuscaloosa: University of
Alabama Press, 1989), 66.
18. Jean-Paul Sartre, The Writings of Jean-Paul Sartre, volume 2, Michel Contat
and Michel Rybalka, eds., trans. Richard McCleary (Evanston, Ill.: North-
western University Press, 1974), 160.
19. Ronald Aronson, Stay Out of Politics: A Philosopher Views South Africa
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 74.
20. Sartre in Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 24.
21. Sartre in Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 25.
22. Steve Biko, I Write What I Like (Randburg: Raven, 1996), 77.
23. Biko, I Write What I Like, 76.
24. Biko, I Write What I Like, 77, 78.
25. Biko, I Write What I Like, 78–79.
26. Sartre, Colonialism and Neocolonialism, 55.
27. Jean-Paul Sartre, Critique of Dialectical Reason, vol. 1, trans. Alan Sheridan-
Smith (London: Verso, 1982), 752.
28. For an interesting view on the reasons why Biko devoted so much energy to
critiquing liberals, see Lewis R. Gordon’s “Foreword” in Steve Biko, I Write
What I Like (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), vii. For a problem-
atic version of this interpretation see Themba Sono, Reflections on the Origins
of Black Consciousness in South Africa (Pretoria: HSRC, 1993), chap. 1.
 Sartre and South African Apartheid 189

29. Biko, I Write What I Like, 20.

30. Aronson, Stay Out of Politics, 74.
31. Memmi, The Colonizer and the Colonized, 27.
32. Biko, I Write What I Like, 20.
33. Biko, I Write What I Like, 23. Sartre also notes that since the United States,
according to Richard Wright, had only a white problem and not a black
problem, then “we can say, in the same way, that antisemitism is not a Jewish
problem: it is our [French] problem.” Jean-Paul Sartre, Portrait of the Anti-
semite, trans. Erik de Mauny (London: Secker & Warburg, 1948), 127.
34. Biko, I Write What I Like, 23. For a recent articulation of “white evasiveness”
see Ruth Frankenberg, White Women, Race Matters: The Sociological
Construction of Whiteness (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,
1993). For the application of Frankenberg’s concept of “race evasiveness”
within the South African context, see Melissa Steyn, Whiteness Just Isn’t What
It Used to Be: White Identity in a Changing South Africa (Albany: State
University of New York Press, 2001); and Mashuq Ally, “White South African
Identity and an Ethnic Reconciliation: Racism, Guilt, and a Sense of Shame,”
Unisa Latin American Report 20.2 ( 2005).
35. Biko, I Write What I Like, 23.
36. Cited in Biko, I Write What I Like, 23.
37. Biko, I Write What I Like, 23.
38. Wilhelm Verwoerd, “The TRC and Apartheid Beneficiaries in a New Dispensa-
tion.” Paper delivered at “Politics and Promises: Evaluating the Implementation
of the TRC’s Recommendations” Conference, Centre for the Study of Violence
and Reconciliation, (Johannesburg: October 27, 2000).
39. Biko, I Write What I Like, 78.
40. Biko, I Write What I Like, 19. Emphasis added.
41. Sartre, Colonialism and Neocolonialism, 55.
42. Sartre, Colonialism and Neocolonialism, 60–61.
43. For an interesting discussion of this Sartrean discrepancy in the ascription of
moral responsibility on Jews, see Linda A. Bell, “Different Oppressions: A
Feminist Exploration of Sartre’s Antisemite and Jew,” in Julien S. Murphy, ed.,
Feminist Interpretations of Jean-Paul Sartre (University Park: Pennsylvania
State University Press, 1999).
44. Biko, I Write What I Like, 146.
45. Biko, I Write What I Like, 81.
46. Biko, I Write What I Like, 85.
47. Biko, I Write What I Like, 29.
48. For the juridical issues on amnesty, see Kader Asmal, Louise Asmal, and
Ronald Suresh Roberts, Reconciliation through Truth: A Reckoning of
Apartheid’s Criminal Governance (Cape Town: David Philip, 1996), especially
chapter 3. The fact that the granting of amnesty to certain individuals (e.g.,
army generals) was part of the compromise reached at CODESA, comes from
a letter Bishop Desmond Tutu wrote to the Sunday Times (South Africa)
December 4, 1996: “Many of those now calling for justice through criminal
trials supported the negotiated settlement AT Kempton Park [CODESA], and
seem to forget that amnesty was a crucial ingredient of the compromise which
reversed the country’s inevitable descent into a bloodbath.”
49. Sartre, Colonialism and Neocolonialism, 64.
50. Flynn, Sartre and Marxist Existentialism, 57.
51. Eugene de Kok belonged to an apartheid security police unit located in a farm
known as Vlakplaas where they tortured, killed, and disposed of the activists’
bodies by using all sorts of methods such as packing explosives around the
190 Mabogo P. More
bodies of their victims and blowing them away, blowing them up with land
mines, burning them and throwing their ashes into the river, or throwing them
down mine shafts.
52. Mahmood Mamdani in Beyond Racism: Embracing an Interdependent Future
(Atlanta, Ga.: Southern Education Foundation, 2000), 19.
53. Verwoerd, “The TRC and Apartheid Beneficiaries in a New Dispensation,” 1
54. Verwoerd, “The TRC and Apartheid Beneficiaries in a New Dispensation,” 2.
55. Verwoerd, “The TRC and Apartheid Beneficiaries in a New Dispensation,” 2.
56. Itumeleng J. Mosala, “The meaning of Reconciliation: A Black Perspective,”
Journal of Theology for Southern Africa 59 (June 1987): 19. The idea of the
relation between the concept of “reconciliation” and the concept of “alien-
ation” is traceable to—among others—Hegel. For a thorough discussion of
the two concepts in Hegel’s work, see Michael O. Hardimon, Hegel’s Social
Philosophy: The Project of Reconciliation (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1994), especially chapter 3. See also Richard Schacht, Alienation
(Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1984).
57. Cited by Ellis Cose, “From Rodriguez to Raça,” in Beyond Racism: Embracing
an Interdependent Future (Atlanta, Ga.: Southern Education Foundation,
2000), 9.
58. Mosala, “The Meaning of Reconciliation: A Black Perspective,” Journal of
Theology for Southern Africa, 25.
59. Ibbo Mandaza, “Reconciliation and Social Justice in Southern Africa: The
Zimbabwe Experience,” in Malegapuru William Makgoba, ed. African Renais-
sance: The New Struggle (Sandton: Mafube, 1999), 81.
60. Mahmood Mamdani, “When Does Reconciliation Turn into a Denial of
Justice?” Sam Nolutshungu Memorial Series 1 (Pretoria: HSRC, 1998): 13.
61. For the Afrikaner “denial phenomenon” see Pierre Hugo, “The Politics of
‘Untruth’: Afrikaner Academics for Apartheid,” Politikon 25.1 (1998): 31–55.
Focusing on the legal profession, the editorial of the Johannesburg-based Mail
and Guardian (May 17–23, 1996) had this to say about the “denial phenom-
enon”: “The age of reconciliation is characterized by a great deal of humbug.
It is almost impossible in the legal profession nowadays to find a good old-
fashioned Nat[ionalist]: apparently they were all against apartheid, and many
claim to have been fighting it from within. . . . But this is not the truth.”
62. Chris Landsberg, City Press (January 22, 2006).
63. Lewis R. Gordon, “Foreword” in Steve Biko, I Write What I Like (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2002), xii. Indeed, Mandela bent over far back-
ward in a desperate attempt to allay white fears and curb white flight. Early in
his presidency Mandela visited the racially exclusive Orania and had tea with
Betsy Verwoerd, the widow of the architect of apartheid, Dr. Hendrik
Verwoerd. He extended a hand of friendship to Percy Yutar, the prosecutor
who made it possible for him to spend twenty-seven years on Robben Island.
He even appointed his former prison guard as part of his security brief. Most
of all, he wore a Springbok rugby jersey in support of the all-white national
rugby team that won the Rugby World Cup in 1995.
 Part IV

Sartre and the

Postcolonial Turn
This page intentionally left blank.
 Chapter 9

Difference/Indifference
Sartre, Glissant, and the Race
of Francophone Literature
Richard H. Watts

When considering the meaning of “race” after Sartre, an important vein to

mine is the postwar interaction that the most visible public intellectual of the
period maintained with black writers from the French colonies and the
newly created overseas departments.1 In his patronage of writers such as
the Senegalese Léopold Senghor, the Guyanese Léon Damas, and, most
passionately and extensively, the Martinican Aimé Césaire, Sartre created a
compelling template for understanding “race” and its relation to cultural
production in the twentieth century. But from the moment of its creation,
this template was questioned, and most vociferously by some of those whose
cause Sartre was ostensibly promoting. Just as Sartre was dismissed as the
“total intellectual” by Pierre Bourdieu, one who establishes “asymmetric
relations” with writers and “think(s) them through more ably than they
could think themselves,” so has Sartre’s patronage of black writers been
dismissed by many of his critics as a totalizing gesture that blots out the
work of the very writers he is supporting.2 Frantz Fanon, in Peau noire,
masques blancs (Black Skin, White Masks), accused Sartre of sapping the
enthusiasm of black writers before they had had a chance to fully develop
their aesthetics and their critiques.3 Jean Bwejeri, for his part, castigates
Sartre for masking his profound nihilism regarding the place of blacks in the
postwar world—that is, they have none—with superficial optimism about
the power of black cultural expression.4 What, then, is there left to salvage
of Sartre’s discourse on “race” and its relation to cultural production? What
happens in the half century after Sartre’s most substantive interventions on
the subject to the category of “black writing” that he helped bring into
existence? And is there an alternative to Sartre’s criticism and patronage of
black writers?
To answer these questions, this chapter considers the respective contribu-
tions of Jean-Paul Sartre and the Martinican novelist, poet, and theorist

193
194 Richard H. Watts

Edouard Glissant to the promotion of the category belatedly known as

“francophone literature,” specifically in the form of prefaces or introductions
that each has written. Prefaces written by one author or public intellectual
for another — what Gérard Genette calls allographic prefaces — forcibly
constitute a discourse on the Other.5 With very few exceptions, the allo-
graphic preface writer occupies a position of greater status or authority in
the literary mediascape than the author being prefaced, and this disparity in
status necessarily creates the conditions for an “othering” discourse (e.g.,
established writers referring to the “youth” of the writers for whom they
are prefacing). But not all othering discourses that appear in prefaces are
equal: The prefaces under consideration here are fraught with profound
cultural and political implications because they address — directly in one
case, obliquely in the other—the racialized Otherness that has been a factor
in the interest in the literary field of colonial or postcolonial francophone
literature since its inception.
Fifty years separate the two prefaces that are most integral to my argu-
ment—Sartre’s 1948 preface “Orphée noir” (“Black Orpheus”), the text that
effectively added negritude to the mix of postwar cultural and political
movements, and Glissant’s interventions or “entre-dires,” as they are desig-
nated, in a 1997 novel by fellow Martinican and Prix Goncourt–winning
author Patrick Chamoiseau — making the apposition of their practices
potentially anachronistic and tendentious.6 But it is precisely the difference
in their respective approaches to essentially the same task and the same
object that justifies this rapprochement. Both intend to promote, validate,
and otherwise enable the circulation of works in French from the colonies
and former colonies of France. Each employs, however, such remarkably
different rhetoric and tactics for doing so that each writer’s prefaces raise
pointed questions about the other’s practice — and position — as literary
patron.
Of course, the situation of the francophone post/colonial writer changes
significantly in the fifty years that separate their two most important pref-
aces in this field, and I will necessarily account for shifts along the diachronic
axis as I consider how the rhetoric and form of the preface are transformed
in the passage from Sartre’s omniscient patronage to Glissant’s willfully
partial or minor one.7 Still, the task of the allographic preface writer remains
fundamentally the same at the turn of the millennium as at mid-century, if
not at any other point since the advent of “literature” as a marketable
commodity: to grant some portion of the authority of the preface writer to
the prefaced writer in order to create an audience for the work in question.8
It is the means of fulfilling that mandate — and everything those means
imply—that has changed. For all of Sartre’s insistence on his abdication of
the preface writer’s authority, “Orphée noir” remains an act of panoptic and
 Difference/Indifference 195

potentially totalizing analysis. Glissant’s preface, for its part, takes the oppo-
site tack, written as if hoping to pass unnoticed and in the process shift the
focus to Chamoiseau, but at the risk of falling into insignificance. It is the
case, I will argue, that the respective position of these writers on the ques-
tion of “race” and, more broadly, difference determines in large part the
rhetorical stance each strikes vis-à-vis the text in question. My objective,
then, is to read Sartre’s prefaces in light of Glissant’s, and vice-versa, in order
to show what role “race”—the preeminent marker of hierarchized difference
in the post/colonial context—plays in the articulation of a discourse on fran-
cophone literature and on the form that articulation takes.

Speaking for Others: Sartre and Negritude

In this mutual interrogation of Sartre’s and Glissant’s prefaces, it is not the
commercial utility or “success” of the patronage that is at issue; it is beyond
debate that Sartre’s prefaces had a far greater impact on the original consol-
idation of the field of francophone post/colonial literature than any of
Glissant’s prefaces have had in its subsequent popularization. For better or
for worse, the one writer or critic to do more than any other to put fran-
cophone literature on the cultural map is Sartre. “Orphée noir,” the
essay/preface to the Anthologie de la nouvelle poésie nègre et malgache de
langue française, edited by Léopold Senghor and first published in 1948, was
for many the text that signaled the arrival and guaranteed the cultural
importance of writers from the French colonies. Similar volumes published
the previous year—the collectively edited Les Plus beaux écrits de l’Union
française et du Maghreb and Léon-Gontran Damas’s Poètes d’expression
française 1900–1945—generated less interest and did not circulate nearly as
widely, partly, it must be assumed, for lack of a metropolitan patron autho-
rizing the endeavor.9 As further evidence of the crucial role it played,
Senghor’s Anthologie was also the only one of these three postwar antholo-
gies of “colonized” francophone literature to be reissued, which it now has
been seven times.
The presence of Sartre’s name on the cover of the Anthologie was suffi-
cient to draw readers to this emerging field of cultural production. However,
the preface did far more than that: It defined negritude as an aesthetic and
social movement in so comprehensive and persuasive a fashion that it
became the authoritative document of its time on the subject. There are
many signs of the discursive reach of “Orphée noir,” though perhaps none
more poignant than Présence Africaine’s editorial decision in 1963 to publish
the preface as a stand-alone document, implying through subtraction that
the Anthologie’s poets’ own creative articulation of the concept of negri-
tude was superceded by Sartre’s essay.10
196 Richard H. Watts

But the suggestion of subaltern or colonized voices having been effectively

silenced by Sartre’s patronage, however well intentioned, has dogged the
essay almost from the moment of its publication, and this presumably
informs Glissant’s palpable resistance to the role of literary patron (even as
he plays it). One cannot fault Sartre for the ethic of generosity on display in
“Orphée noir” and in other interventions on behalf of the colonized. Many
have asked, though, if “Orphée noir” might not be a poisoned gift. This is
where the critical reception of “Orphée noir” seems to stand at the present.
My brief consideration below of the patronage of francophone literature
from the colonial period — prior to Sartre’s intervention — is meant to
complicate this perspective, as is my subsequent rereading of Sartre’s
“Orphée noir” and its antithesis, Glissant’s “entre-dires.”
The packaging of what was known as “indigenous literature”—the first
works in French from the 1920s and 1930s written by colonial subjects—
was characterized by a discourse of objectification. The preface writer was
almost always positioned hypertextually, dispensing praise or, more often,
criticism from an elevated vantage point. To take a representative example
of the discourse of the preface from those years, Georges Hardy, a colonial
administrator, referred to Paul Hazoumé’s 1938 historical novel Doguicimi
as a sign of the “conquêtes intellectuelles et morales” (intellectual and moral
conquests) effected by French colonialism, while forcefully excluding it
from the category of Literature, since, for him, Hazoumé’s text was nothing
more than a repository of ethnographic data.11 Other ostensibly well-
meaning prefaces insisted on the essential goodness and refreshing naïveté of
the black writers. Although there are a few prefaces from the period that
resist this discursive norm, none did so as directly and as powerfully as
Sartre’s “Orphée noir,” which bucked this entire tradition.
As a result of the participation of colonial subjects in the Resistance and
the Liberation and the emergence of a new colonial configuration known as
the Union française based on the politics of association as opposed to the
politics of assimilation, this paternalistic paratextual discourse vanished
after the end of the World War II. The category of indigenous literature,
largely a phenomenon of colonial publishing, was essentially dissolved and
replaced by what Senghor would call “littérature négro-africaine d’expres-
sion française” (Black African literature of French expression), which he
later revised to “littérature négro-africaine de langue française” (Black
African literature in French). This was a predominantly metropolitan French
publishing enterprise, with the quintessential instantiation being Présence
Africaine, headquartered as it was (and is) on the Rue des écoles in Paris.
Accordingly, it began to receive the support of important metropolitan intel-
lectual figures: André Breton, André Gide, Jean Cocteau, Louis Aragon,
and, most emphatically, Sartre. If all of these metropolitan preface writers
 Difference/Indifference 197

practiced their patronage from a more sympathetic and less authoritative

position than their prewar counterparts, Sartre took this the furthest,
perhaps even, as Daniel Maximin has suggested, to the point of
masochism.12 The paratextual discourse of racial objectification of the
interwar years became in the opening lines of “Orphée noir” a discourse of
racial subjectification, and Sartre and the white world became the objects of
the gaze of these newly emerging black subjects.
Unlike the patrons of indigenous literature from the interwar years, Sartre
adopted a posture of humility in relation to the texts he introduced. He
focused on the gulf that existed between him and the poets whose work
appears in Senghor’s Anthologie, a gulf that is the result, as he saw it, of
“race” or, rather, of racial differentiation. Sartre maintained that whereas
whiteness had come to be a signifier for technical mastery and domination,
blackness was at its core the collective memory of slavery and of the objec-
tification enacted by it (xxxvii). Having found themselves the inheritors of
this position, black writers write to reclaim their individual and collective
subjectivity, and it is this hypersubjectivity that Sartre identified as the force
of black poetry. Sartre established a new, reversed hierarchy of value in
which white culture was less vibrant than the black culture manifested in the
Anthologie, and most strikingly for him in the excerpt of Aimé Césaire’s
Cahier d’un retour au pays natal (Notebook of a Return to my Native Land)
that it contains.
This subject/object reversal has the effect of placing Sartre in the unusual
position of the literary patron who views the object of his patronage from
below. The most hyperbolic expression of this appears in a phrase paradox-
ically designed to bring Sartre closer to his object of study and patronage:
“Our whiteness seems a strange opaque varnish that keeps our skin from
breathing, a white suit, worn at the elbows and knees, under which, if it
could be removed, we would find true human flesh, flesh the color of black
wine.”13 This black wine (“vin noir”) is in fact borrowed from the famous
Senghor poem “Femme noire” (“Black woman”) that Sartre had just cited,
and clearly suggests, in this context, the color of black skin. Sartre’s desire to
peel back his white skin and reveal the authentic color of humanity—which
is depicted here as blackness—constituted, at this point in the history of the
reception and patronage of colonized literature, a clear epistemic break. It
suggests, if we are to take Sartre at his word, that blackness constitutes the
baseline of humanity, and that white skin is a dangerous supplement that,
as the history of colonialism indicates to Sartre, obscures that humanity.
Sartre’s desire to transform himself into his object of study also mani-
fests itself in the form that the language of the preface takes. As Ronnie
Scharfman has pointed out, there are passages in “Orphée noir” that “strain
to espouse the Césairian text itself.”14 The most imitative passages in Sartre’s
198 Richard H. Watts

preface are the ones that address the explicitly sexual elements of Césaire’s
poetry. Sartre mimics this language, I suspect, for the same reason that he
expresses a desire to remove his white skin: The vivid phallic imagery,
learned medical vocabulary, and percussive, repetitive language employed by
Césaire is as foreign to Sartre’s writing as the experience of being black. In
order to be able to comment meaningfully on this Francophone poetry that
is linguistically intelligible but culturally opaque, Sartre seems compelled to
inhabit it.15 In writing of the mimicry of the colonized, Homi Bhabha char-
acterizes it as “a complex strategy of reform, regulation and discipline,
which ‘appropriates’ the Other as it visualizes power.” 16 In a complex
reversal, especially for the year 1948, Sartre visualizes the power of being
physically and, as it were, aesthetically black, of adopting the role of the
previously subordinate term in colonial “race” relations.
Sartre’s gestures of radical and perhaps even exaggerated empathy, along
with his mimetic language, could be read as forms of appropriation, as
hijacking the other’s voice, which silences it, but such a reading is inconsis-
tent with his broader stated goal of infusing morose capitalist Europe with
the vitality of blackness, a vitality that is not an essence but the result of an
anticapitalist and noninstrumental relation to the world. Perhaps
“borrowing” is a term preferable to “appropriation” here: The gestures of
rapprochement with the black poets give Sartre the critical authority neces-
sary to write the preface. He has, in spite of his outsider’s position, an
insider’s knowledge. This is necessarily an uncomfortable position for the
preface writer, and Sartre acknowledges relatively late in “Orphée noir” the
uneasiness that he, the white metropolitan literary figure prefacing a collec-
tion of “poésie nègre,” feels:

And what is, then, this negritude that is the sole concern of these poets and
the only subject of this book? I must first answer that a white man is not
capable of explaining it properly because he does not experience it inter-
nally. . . . But this introduction would be incomplete if [. . .] I did not show
that this complex notion is, at its core, pure poetry.17

In this striking act of preterition (“It’s not for me to say, but it’s my convic-
tion that . . .”), Sartre concedes his unsuitability to the task of defining
negritude, before proceeding to perform that very task.
This passage could serve, then, as an encapsulated version of the rhetor-
ical strategy of the entire preface: Sartre positions himself outside of the
black poet’s work in one breath and comments upon it in the next. While
this can be read as another instance of Sartre’s confiscation of the black
writers’ project, is it not also possible to read it as a marker of what Daniel
Maximin characterizes as Sartre’s “realization [. . .] of the indignity of
 Difference/Indifference 199

speaking for others, while continuing to speak with them”? 18 To avoid

speaking for the Other, especially in the immediate postwar period when
polarized difference was all there was, Sartre would have had to avoid
speaking altogether.
The strongest objections to “Orphée noir” stem from its conclusion. In
many cases the essay has been reduced by its critics to those few lines in
which Sartre famously confines negritude to the position of antithesis in a
dialectic and therefore slates it for disappearance. Although Ronnie
Scharfman remains vague on exactly who indicts Sartre, she suggests that it
is for its conclusion that “Orphée noir” has “gained [. . .], ironically, the
epithet of ‘racist’ in black circles.”19 The central point of contention in the
preface appears two paragraphs from the end when Sartre reclaims the
preface writer’s authority that he had spent the better part of the preface
foreswearing in order to claim that “the man of color and only the man of
color can be asked to renounce his racial pride” in the name of ushering in
“the imminent universalism that will constitute the decline of negritude,”20
The impetus for the accusation of racism in “Orphée noir” is still difficult
to identify: Is Sartre racist because he romanticizes blackness earlier in the
preface (which would make him more properly racialist)21 or because he
announces its demise at the end, if that is in fact what he does?
The argument between Denis Hollier and Susan Suleiman regarding
Sartre’s 1946 essay Réflexions sur la question juive is instructive for under-
standing the controversy aroused by some of the movements and gestures in
“Orphée noir.”22 Concerning the charge of racial stereotyping, Suleiman,
who has in recent years famously (or infamously, depending on one’s view of
the debate) argued that Sartre’s passionate defense of “the Jew” paradoxi-
cally produces an “antisemitic effect.” She writes that “although Sartre
rejects racial determinism (in principle, if not always in ‘detail’), he substi-
tutes for it a determinism of situation,” which she suggests amounts to the
same thing.23 While this tendency is certainly on display in “Orphée noir,”
the traits of the white working class are as “essentialized” as those of the
black poets, and, in both cases, these traits are shown to be responses to a
situation but not the only possibility. The hyperbolic characterization of
the differences between blacks and whites in “Orphée noir” is more plausibly
the result of the fact that the Sartre of this period viewed social change
through the lens of the Hegelian dialectic, which requires a sharp distinction
between the first two terms in order to arrive at the synthesis.
However, the problem of the synthesis, which requires the disappearance
of difference in the universalizing gesture of the dialectic, remains. Suleiman
and others have taken Sartre to task for asking Jews to assimilate in order
to defeat antisemitism, just as he asks blacks to renounce negritude to put an
end to racism. While these are important and at least partially valid
200 Richard H. Watts

critiques, Sartre’s position in both instances has been reduced to a caricature,

as if the postwar Sartre were articulating the same fundamentalist Repub-
lican position as Alain Finkielkraut in La défaite de la pensée.24 Denis
Hollier argues in response to Suleiman that Sartre’s call to assimilation at the
end of Réflexions sur la question juive

is no longer associated with a repressive antipluralistic program, with any form

of renouncing differences, with having to conform, to resemble, to be the
same as everyone. Assimilation simply connotes [. . .] sharing the same, open,
secular time. Not being the same in history, but being in the same history.
Assimilation, here, simply means the pure openness of historical synchronicity.
That there is one and only one time and one history. That history (as opposed
to memory) is never strictly of one’s own. That history means risking one’s
past in the other’s language, in the other’s time.25

Sartre makes this very point regarding the role of negritude within the
synthesis of previously opposing forces at the end of “Orphée noir”: “Race
has transformed itself into historicity; the black present is exploding and
entering time; negritude, with its past and its future, is inserting itself into
universal history; it is no longer a state nor even an existential attitude, but
a becoming.” 26 Black cultures, having been confined to the margins of
history, have reached the point of being able to assert themselves on a global
historical scale. This does not mean that the concerns of the poets of the
Anthologie will now mirror those of the white working class; it means,
rather, that there will be new set of global concerns that will include those
of the formerly enslaved.
This is not to deny that Sartre overstates the difference between black and
white in “Orphée noir.” But it is hard to imagine how he could avoid doing
so while writing on the threshold of a collection of poetry that performs that
very gesture. In any case, this is a different problem than the one evoked by
the conclusion to the preface. If one concedes that the binary oppositions
constructed by Sartre are rhetorically necessary for the preface’s conclusion,
then it is simply a question of gauging the meaning and importance of the
“synthesis” of the dialectic. Writing very much against the grain, Nik Farrell
Fox argues that, “unlike the Hegelian dialectic, Sartre’ s dialectic does not
collapse one term into the other. It explores the ground that lies between
them—the space of the conjuctive.”27 Fox positions Sartre not as the foil to
postmodernism but as a transitional thinker, and, read in relation to what
comes before and after it in Sartre’s work, the dialectic in Sartre’s “Orphée
noir” can be understood as an early movement toward that transition.
Reading the conclusion to the preface in this way makes “Orphée noir” less
a definitive, totalizing statement on blackness than an exploration of the
 Difference/Indifference 201

space between black and white. Sartre does attempt to partially bridge this
space, but not at the expense of all difference as many have argued. Black-
ness for Sartre can no longer be, as many of the poets of the Anthologie
would seem to have it, a self-constituting, self-sustaining movement; it must
join other imagined communities (e.g., Sartre’s “whites”) in the broader
struggle for justice.

Speaking with Others: Glissant’s Utopia of Horizontality

Sartre’s call for negritude to join “universal history” came perhaps too early
for some (Fanon, most prominently), but it is difficult to argue that this call
was not heeded by the writers and theorists of postcolonialism, or at least
that Sartre’s aims do not align in some way with theirs. The project of lit-
erary postcolonialism is not simply to supersede colonialism; that, in essence,
was the project of decolonization. There is a generalized renouncement in the
works of postcolonial authors of the illusion of transparency in language and
of the stark political oppositions of the period of decolonization. There is
also in these works a forsaking of the “race” politics of anticolonial move-
ments, which lead in their extreme form into the racial absolutism of Duva-
lier’s noirisme in Haiti and Mobutu’s authenticité in Zaire.
This movement away from racial-identity politics is reflected in the post-
colonial literary field in the emerging demand for prefaces from the
generation of postcolonial writers who initiated their production near the
beginning of the post-independence period. Léopold Senghor, who wrote a
number of prefaces in the 1940s and 1950s that associated aesthetics with
race, seems not to have been solicited by the younger generation of post-
colonial writers. White metropolitan patrons, for their part, played hardly
any role in the paratextual promotion of postcolonial literature (Sartre’s
last preface to the work of a black writer was to a posthumous collection of
essays by Patrice Lumumba published in 1963).
Among those whose patronage was solicited by postcolonial writers and
their publishers, Edouard Glissant was and remains perhaps the most sought
after imprimatur. Glissant was asked to write a number of allographic pref-
aces during these years precisely because his patronage marked works as
existing beyond the binary oppositions of the period of decolonization. Glis-
sant’s prefaces manifests an intensifying discomfort with the allographic
preface writer’s authority, the wielding of which contrasts sharply with Glis-
sant’s concept of Relation.28 A recent paratextual intervention by Glissant
stands as his most compelling reflection on the institution of patronage and
constitutes a transfiguration (more precisely, a fragmenting) of the preface
and, by extension, the promise of the disappearance of the last traces of colo-
nial ideology in the presentation and marketing of francophone literatures.
202 Richard H. Watts

But it is also symptomatic of a discourse on difference that has difficulty

accounting for difference.
Glissant is in many respects both the Sartre and the anti-Sartre of his
generation. He is one of the leading and most active theoreticians of the
global postcolonial condition, while remaining a reluctant authority, if not
quantitatively then at least qualitatively. In the patronage of francophone
literature, after Léopold Senghor, it is Edouard Glissant who has written
more prefaces than anyone else. However, meaningful comparison with
Senghor stops at quantity. Already in his first preface written in 1959 for
Kateb Yacine’s trilogy of plays, Le cercle des représailles, Glissant reflected
upon the problem of the vertical, racialized nature of the patronage of so-
called Third World literature. Glissant’s preface describes Kateb’s plays by
insisting on the poetic, allusive nature of Kateb’s writing that is in part a
product of its Algerian specificity. But the preface also inscribes Kateb’s plays
in a much broader context: “Today, more than ever before, we cannot
imagine our life or our art existing outside of the remarkable efforts of
people of different races and cultures who are attempting to approach and
become familiar with one another. Today, the circle is closed, we are all in the
same place, and it is the entire planet.”29
Glissant addresses this text not from the perspective of racial similarity,
as Senghor tended to, but that of situational similarity. In other words, Glis-
sant is able to write “nous” and imply that he and Kateb share certain
aesthetic sensibilities and are working toward the same objectives because
they are both part of the collective of the colonized that Frantz Fanon would
theorize two years later in Les damnés de la terre (The Wretched of the
Earth). It is from this situational affinity with Kateb that Glissant derives
his authority. Glissant’s use of the collective personal pronoun “nous” is
already different from Senghor’s contemporaneous gesture of calling for a
specifically black African criticism of black African literature in that it is
situational rather than racialized. It is also, more significantly, a departure
from Sartre’s initial discourse of differentiation in “Orphée noir.” Glissant
seeks in this preface to undo the hierarchies that had, up to this point,
governed relations between patron and author, not to mention between colo-
nizer and colonized or between black and white.
Over time, though, Glissant, like many other philosophers of the post-
colonial condition, became suspicious of the “nous” (us) and its implication
of racial and cultural homogeneity within the postcolonies. In subsequent
prefaces, Glissant found different ways of mitigating the problem of
authority in the paratext that avoid suggesting a form of forced solidarity. In
1979, Glissant wrote an otherwise unremarkable preface to a collection of
poems by the Guadeloupean Henri Corbin, which he titled not “préface” but
“avant-dire” (foreword or, more literally, the “pre-speech”). Glissant did
not coin a term here, the “avant-dire” having been a common name for the
 Difference/Indifference 203

preface until the beginning of the twentieth century. That said, Glissant’s
rehabilitation of the term was a deliberate gesture to move the preface into
the less vertical realm of orality. It is worth recalling that, at about the same
time, Glissant qualified the oral in Le discours antillais (Caribbean
Discourse) as “le geste organisé de la diversité” (the organized gesture of
diversity) and the written as “la trace universalisante du Même” (the univer-
salizing trace of Sameness).30
By extension, then, a preface that presents itself in form and content as a
sort of transcription of the oral sidesteps the problem of authority in the
paratext. In a similarly minor preface to the childhood memoirs of Maurice
Roche, a white French writer, Un petit rien-du-tout tout neuf plié dans une
feuille de persil (1997), Glissant pursues this minimally invasive form of
paratextual patronage. Most of this preface is devoted to describing Maurice
Roche’s polymorphous aesthetics through the characteristics of his . . . cats:
“M.R. changes with them, he becomes multi-cat, which explains (to us) why
he welcomes so many of them to his side.”31 Glissant is content in this
preface to simply exchange a few words, and to do so with a white French
writer in this spirit is to, once again, break down the racial binary.
Another way of diminishing the authority of the allograph is to do away
with precedence. A preface comes before, and therefore at least symboli-
cally dictates the meaning of the text to follow. Glissant responds by writing
a short “postface” to the Franco-Peul writer Sylvie Kandé’s Lagon, lagunes
from 2000. Here too, Glissant did not invent the postface, or afterword, but
it seems clear that he intends to have the placement of his paratextual inter-
vention signify not his understanding of the work in question — and we
know that for Glissant “compréhension,” or understanding, equals appro-
priation—but a lateral appreciation when he writes “there is no point in
my lecturing you here. I simply wanted, in this place, to share with you the
unfathomable and the unpredictable.”32
Glissant’s preface “Un marqueur de paroles,” (“A Word Scratcher”)
attached to the paratextually enriched second edition of Patrick Chamoi-
seau’s Chronique des sept misères (1988; Chronicle of the Seven Sorrows,
1999), seemed to mark a retreat to a more conventional form of patronage.
It is far more descriptive and analytical than Glissant’s other prefaces, and
assumes a more authoritative voice in its inscription of Chamoiseau in a
cultural and intellectual movement of Glissant’s invention:

Patrick Chamoiseau belongs to a generation that did not thrill to the noble
generalities of negritude but focused instead on the particulars of West Indian
reality. The particulars? One should say, rather, the inextricable mass of expe-
rience, a questioning of the wellsprings of language and history, the
groundwork of what I have called our antillanité, that Caribbeanness so much
in evidence and so imperiled.33
204 Richard H. Watts

This passage stands out for two reasons: First, this preface is one of the few
sites where Glissant directly expresses his opposition to what he considers
negritude’s excessively broad ambitions. Second, it is also the only preface in
which Glissant subordinates the writer he is introducing; to paraphrase Glis-
sant, Chamoiseau belongs to a movement of his own invention. Of course,
this arrangement is at least partially reciprocal since the epigraph at the
beginning of the novel, just a few pages after Glissant’s preface, is culled from
Glissant’s Le discours antillais. There is, nonetheless, an unacknowledged
imbalance of authority in the paratext to Chronique des sept misères, as there
is generally in the relations between Chamoiseau and Glissant, especially as it
relates to epigraphs and other markers of a literary institutional hierarchy.
In a more recent allographic paratextual intervention, which is not a
preface per se, Glissant, with the cooperation and encouragement of
Chamoiseau, attempted to displace the power imbalance that existed in the
margins of Chronique des sept misères.34 He produced an interesting inno-
vation in the paratext, but does so, as in his previous prefaces, in a minor
key. A problem of residual authority exists in the prefaces to Kateb, Chamoi-
seau, Corbin, Kandé, and Roche, and it is the problem of distinction. Any
type of preface or afterword stands outside of the text and, by extension,
supra, thereby running the risk of constituting the sort of totalizing
“compréhension” (understanding and appropriation) against which Glis-
sant’s critical work argues. A way out of this particular problem comes in
Patrick Chamoiseau’s L’esclave vieil homme et le molosse (1997) and can
be characterized in the following way: Do not preface the author — not
even in a manner that flatters through imitation, as in the case of “Orphée
noir”—but share the page with him.
Esclave vieil homme et le molosse recounts, in quite linear fashion, the
story of a Martinican slave who maroons and heads for the interior of the
island, with the eponymous “molosse” (attack dog) and his béké master on
his heals throughout. The question of the authorship and authority of the
text is raised from the outset by the fact that every chapter is prefaced by a
short passage from Glissant. Glissant’s “entre-dires,” as they are dubbed on
the inside cover of the novel, are culled, as Chamoiseau informs the reader
elsewhere in the paratext, from Glissant’s Intention poétique and another
text unpublished at the time, “La folie Celat.” Unlike the typical preface,
Glissant’s “entre-dires” do not explicate or promote the texts they introduce.
Rather, they are disconnected textual episodes that anticipate and run
parallel to Chamoiseau’s. In his “entre-dire” to the chapter titled “Eaux”
(Waters), which concerns the runaway slave’s communion with water during
his escape, Glissant inserts a paragraph in which Marie Celat ponders the
depths of the ocean (58). Later, before the chapter titled “La Pierre” (The
Rock), Glissant writes allusively of the Rocher du Diamant, a large outcrop-
 Difference/Indifference 205

ping of rock off the southern tip of Martinique: “This stone is a rock. It
grew in the depths of the sea, like a patina-covered cannonball.”35
In these passages, Glissant abandons the authority of the preface writer in
order to participate in the creation of the narrative or, perhaps, of a kind of
hypertext within the text. Whereas a preface or afterword speaks about a
text, the “entre-dire” speaks with the text. By creating resonances between
his work and Chamoiseau’s, and by doing so in the text rather than around
or above the novel, Glissant transforms the paratext from a discourse on
the text to a dialogue with it. Glissant’s “entre-dires” are principally mean-
ingful as a gesture (they do not in any way advance the narrative). By
speaking briefly and obliquely of Chamoiseau’s text, Glissant’s intratext
suggests not the “we” of the preface to Kateb or Chamoiseau’s Chronique
des sept misères, but rather two “I’s” coming into contact with each other in
a situation of transversality, not verticality, of horizontality, not hierarchy.
These two first-person singulars are different, but they exist on the same
plane. It is implied that they are equals in the francophone literary ecology.
This paratext clearly aspires to bring into existence a new protocol governing
the relations between author and preface writer and the inside and the
outside of the text.
There is something profoundly utopian in this gesture, as there is, I would
argue, in Glissant’s work as a whole. It is as if the intratextuality of the
“entre-dires” were enough to completely erase the historically hierarchal
relationship between author and patron, as well as between Glissant and
Chamoiseau. In spite of the transversality of the personal relationship
between them that is averred elsewhere, the publishing context implies a
hierarchy that is simply ignored in the paratext to Esclave vieil homme et le
molosse. The existence of this hierarchy is evident in the fact that Chamoi-
seau inserts an epigraph from Glissant at the beginning of nearly every one
of his works, indicating at the very least a debt to his predecessor, whereas,
to my knowledge, Glissant mentions Chamoiseau just once in the paratext
to his own works.36
This ostensible evacuation of the problem of authority in the paratext by
Glissant evokes a broader tendency in his work identified by Celia Britton,
who notes that Glissant writes “as though the values of Relation, chaos,
and diversity have in fact already prevailed.”37 I would add that, in the
world of literary publishing, those values have decidedly not prevailed. Glis-
sant tries to move the text toward the plane of immanence, the plane of the
unmediated, but it remains most evidently mediated by the French literary
institution (after all, the novel is published by Gallimard).38 Through an act
of relational voluntarism, Glissant attempts to evacuate the difference in
status between author and patron in a space where to do so is quite simply
an act of denial.
206 Richard H. Watts

Difference/Indifference: A Conclusion
If Sartre’s “Orphée noir” was the exaggerated expression of racial difference
(which is perhaps too quickly bridged at the end), Glissant’s “entre-dires”
suggest indifference, in both senses of the word: Indifferent, in that it seems
as if Glissant sent Chamoiseau whichever scraps of texts he had close at
hand (Chamoiseau has remarked that he wished that Glissant had done
something more substantial with the “entre-dires”39); indifferent too, and
more significantly, in that the “entre-dires” suggest that there is no difference
between their texts, their cultural projects, and their respective places in the
postcolonial literary field. Glissant’s paratextual intervention certainly
avoids obscuring the Other through analysis, but it is not clear what it
accomplishes beyond that.
Sartre takes the risk of speaking for the Other, of naming racial and
cultural difference, and this is an endeavor fraught with potential conse-
quences, especially when viewed from our present. The generation that
follows Sartre’s will announce that speaking for the Other is obscene,
although perhaps obscenity is preferable to extreme discretion. If one
respects Glissant’s “droit à l’opacité” (the right not to be understood), which
finds its logical extension in all of Glissant’s prefaces and especially in the
“entre-dires” to Chamoiseau’s novel, not very much is exchanged—there is
no arguing with the “entre-dires.” Sartre’s “Orphée noir,” which is generous
but also potentially overbearing, risks saying too much and being an appro-
priative gesture, but—in spite of all of the voices that have paradoxically
professed to the contrary—the argument continues.

Notes
1. This chapter compresses some parts and expands other parts of arguments I
made in two chapters of my book Packaging Post/Coloniality: The Manufac-
ture of Literary Identity in the Francophone World (Lanham, Md.: Lexington,
2005). I would like to thank those in attendance at the “Sartre and His
Others/Sartre et ses autres” conference held at Harvard University in April
2005 who commented on an earlier version of the current chapter, in partic-
ular Denis Hollier, Annie Cohen-Solal, and Alice Jardine. I am also grateful to
the faculty in French at UC Berkeley for their intellectual and moral support
throughout my semester-long exile from New Orleans in the aftermath of
Hurricane Katrina, during which time I completed this chapter. Unless other-
wise noted, translations are mine.
2. Pierre Bourdieu, The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field,
trans. Susan Emanuel (1992; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 209.
3. Frantz Fanon, Peau noire, masques blancs (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1952),
187. What often gets lost in the debate, however, is that Fanon was as ambiva-
lent as Sartre about “race” and its place in the struggle for the emancipation of
the oppressed. In the same section of Peau noire, masques blancs in which he
critiques Sartre’s conclusions to “Orphée noir,” Fanon also writes, “le nègre
 Difference/Indifference 207

n’est pas. Pas plus que le blanc” [the black man doesn’t exist. No more than
the white man].
4. Jean Bwejeri, “Orphée noir ou la lettre qui tue: éléments pour une évaluation
du concept sartrien de négritude,” Les Lettres Romanes 43.1–2 (1989): 97.
5. Gérard Genette, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, trans. Jane E. Lewin
(New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), esp. 244–47.
6. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Orphée noir,” preface to Anthologie de la nouvelle poésie
nègre et malgache, ed. Léopold Sédar (1948; Paris: Presses Universitaires de
France, 1977); Edouard Glissant, “Entre-dires,” prefaces to Patrick Chamoi-
seau, Esclave vieil homme et le molosse (Paris: Gallimard, 1997). Subsequent
references to Sartre’s “Orphée noir” and Glissant’s “entre-dires” will appear in
the body of the text.
7. I borrow the term “post/colonial” from Chris Bongie who uses it to signify the
epistemic complicity between the colonial and postcolonial periods. See his
Islands and Exiles: The Creole Identities of Post/Colonial Literature (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 1998), 13.
8. Gérard Genette points to a number of other functions that the allographic
preface performs, such as presentation and recommendation (op. cit., 244–47).
But these functions can all be considered means of granting authority. I insist
on the term “authority” because it is precisely what the post/colonial writer is
lacking in the eyes of the metropolitan French literary institution.
9. Les plus beaux écrits de l’Union française et du Maghreb, ed. and pref.
Mohamed El Kholti, Léopold S. Senghor, Pierre Do Dinh, A. Rakoto Ratsima-
manga, and E. Ralajmihiatra (Paris: La Colombe, 1947); Poètes d’expression
française, 1900–1945, ed. Léon Damas (Paris: Seuil, 1947). Although Damas’s
anthology had a modicum of success, there are, according to the WorldCat
database, only eight extant copies worldwide of Les Plus beaux écrits de
l’Union française et du Maghreb.
10. Jean-Paul Sartre, Black Orpheus, trans. S. W. Allen (Paris: Présence africaine,
1963). This is neither the last nor even the most famous instance of a preface
by Sartre becoming a major document in its own right. Sartre had been asked
in 1951 by the publisher Gallimard to contribute a preface to Jean Genet’s
complete works to date. This quickly became a five hundred-page chapter that
Gallimard chose to publish as a stand-alone study and that was published in
advance of Genet’s Oeuvres complètes. See Jean-Paul Sartre, Saint Genet,
comédien et martyr (Paris: Gallimard, 1952). Suggestive of the problem of
Sartre’s totalizing analysis is Genet’s response to the “preface,” as related by
Sartre: “Ça le dégoûtait parce qu’il se sentait bien tel que je l’avais décrit” [It
disgusted him because he liked himself as I had described him]. Simone de
Beauvoir, La Cérémonie des adieux (Paris: Gallimard, 1981), 350.
11. Paul Hazoumé, Doguicimi, pref. Georges Hardy (1938; Paris: G.-P. Maison-
neuve et Larose, 1978), 9–11.
12. Daniel Maximin, “Sartre et le tiers(-monde),” Sartre: Catalogue de l’exposition
à la BNF, ed. Mauricette Berne (Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France/Galli-
mard, 2005), 124.
13. “Notre blancheur nous paraît un étrange vernis blême qui empêche notre peau
de respirer, un maillot blanc, usé aux coudes et aux genoux, sous lequel, si
nous pouvions l’ôter, on trouverait la vraie chair humaine, la chair couleur de
vin noir” (ix).
14. Ronnie Scharfman, Engagement and the Language of the Subject in the Poetry
of Aimé Césaire (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1987), 12.
15. Arlette Elkaïm-Sartre remarked on Sartre’s tendency to mimic his object of
analysis in a preface to her adoptive father’s essay on Mallarmé, suggesting
208 Richard H. Watts
that it is not so much racial difference but difference tout court that inspires
Sartre’s will to (sometimes totalizing) understanding. Jean-Paul Sartre,
Mallarmé: La lucidité et sa face d’ombre, pref. Arlette Elkaïm-Sartre (Paris:
Editions Gallimard, 1986), 9.
16. Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 86.
17. “Et qu’est-ce donc à présent que cette négritude, unique souci de ces poètes,
unique sujet de ce livre? Il faut d’abord répondre qu’un blanc ne saurait en
parler convenablement, puisqu’il n’en a pas l’expérience intérieure. . . . Mais
cette introduction serait incomplète si . . . je ne montrais que cette notion
complexe est, en son coeur, Poésie pure” (xxix).
18. “la prise de conscience [. . .] de l’indignité de penser pour les autres, sans pour
autant cesser de parler avec eux” (Maximin, 125).
19. Scharfman, Engagement, 12.
20. “à l’homme de couleur et à lui seul il peut être demandé de renoncer à la fierté
de sa couleur”; “l’universalisme futur qui sera le crépuscule de sa négritude . . .”
(xlii).
21. In the popular understanding of this distinction (as put forward by, for
instance, the NAACP), a racist argues for the supremacy of one race over the
others while a racialist simply acknowledges the importance of “race” in social
movements.
22. Jean-Paul Sartre, Réflexions sur la question juive (Paris: Gallimard, 1946).
23. Susan Suleiman, “Rereading Rereading: Further Reflections on Sartre’s Réflex-
ions,” October 87 (Winter, 1999): 132.
24. Finkielkraut argues that France is the home of universal values without
acknowledging, of course, that such a statement is itself an affirmation of
cultural particularity and an act of differentiation. Since culture is something
one has, Finkielkraut asks the Muslim immigrant to step out of his cultural
skin without acknowledging that to become “French” he must step into a new
one. Alain Finkielkraut, La Défaite de la pensée: essai (Paris: Gallimard,
1987), 131.
25. Denis Hollier, “Mosaic: Terminable and Interminable,” October 87 (Winter,
1999): 159.
26. “la race s’est transmuée en historicité, le Présent noir explose et se temporalise,
la Négritude s’insère avec son Passé et son Avenir dans l’Histoire Universelle,
ce n’est plus un état ni même une attitude existentielle, c’est un Devenir”
(xxxix).
27. Nik Farrell Fox, The New Sartre: Explorations in Postmodernism (New York:
Continuum, 2003), 51–52.
28. Although difficult to pin down, Relation is probably best described in opposi-
tion to conceptions of the universal: Whereas universalism posits an
underlying identity or disposition accessible to all, Relation sees a global
totality made up of discrete, nonhierarchized individuals. It is, by extension, a
theory of irreducible diversity.
29. “Aujourd’hui plus qu’hier, nous ne pouvons envisager notre vie ni notre art en
dehors de l’effort terrible des hommes qui, de races et de cultures différentes,
tentent de s’approcher et de se connaître. Aujourd’hui le cercle est fermé, nous
voici tous dans le même lieu: et c’est la terre tout entière.” Kateb Yacine, Le
cercle des représailles, pref. Edouard Glissant (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1959),
10–11.
30. Edouard Glissant, Le discours antillais (1997; Paris: Gallimard, 1981),
330–31.
31. “M.R. change avec eux, il devient multichat, c’est ce qui explique (pour nous)
qu’il en accueille autant près de lui.” Maurice Roche, Un petit rien-du-tout
 Difference/Indifference 209

tout neuf plié dans une feuille de persil, pref. Edouard Glissant (Paris: Galli-
mard, 1997), ii.
32. “il ne sert de rien que je vous administre ici. Je voulais seulement, à cette place,
partager avec vous l’insondable et l’imprévisible.” Sylvie Kandé, Lagon,
lagunes, “postface” by Edouard Glissant (Paris: Gallimard, 2000), 76,
emphasis mine.
33. “Patrick Chamoiseau est d’une génération qui n’a pas vibré aux généralités
généreuses de la Négritude, mais qui a porté son attention sur le détail du réel
antillais. Le détail ? Il faudrait plutôt dire la masse inextricable du vécu, l’in-
terrogation des sources du langage et de l’histoire, le débroussaillage de ce que
j’ai nommé notre antillanité, tellement présente et menacée.” Patrick Chamoi-
seau, Chronique des sept misères, pref. Edouard Glissant (1986; Paris:
Gallimard, 1988), 3; translated passage from Chronicle of the Seven Sorrows,
trans. Linda Coverdale (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999), vii.
34. Chamoiseau has stated that the format of the book was his idea and that he
asked Glissant to participate. Personal interview with Patrick Chamoiseau,
March 17, 1998.
35. “Cette pierre est une roche. Elle a grossi aux profonds de mer, comme un
boulet verdi” (120).
36. In the glossary to Tout-monde (Paris: Gallimard, 1993).
37. Celia Britton, Edouard Glissant and Postcolonial Theory: Strategies of
Language and Resistance (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1999),
9.
38. This critique of Glissant owes much to Peter Hallward, who argues in
Absolutely Postcolonial: Writing between the Singular and the Specific
(Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 2001) that Glissant’s concept
of “la Relation,” which is indeed operative in his paratextual practice, is a
singular configuration, a “self-asserting, self-constituting singular immediacy
on the Deleuzian or Spinozist model—an ‘already immediate’ immediacy, so to
speak” (67). Glissant wills Chamoiseau to this plane of nonhierarchical imme-
diacy or relation, but this remains an act of the imagination that the
Chamoiseau who wrote Ecrire en pays dominé (Paris: Gallimard, 1997) would
find unconvincing.
39. Personal interview.
This page intentionally left blank.
 Chapter 10

Violence, Nonviolence
Sartre on Fanon
Judith Butler

What is immediately strange about Sartre’s controversial preface to Fanon’s

The Wretched of the Earth1 is its mode of address. To whom is this preface
written? Sartre imagines his reader as the colonizer or the French citizen who
recoils from the thought of violent acts of resistance on the part of the
colonized. Minimally, his imagined reader is one who believes that his own
notions of humanism and universalism suffice as norms by which to assess
the war for independence in Algeria and similar efforts at decolonization.
Sartre’s address to his audience is direct and caustic: “What does Fanon
care whether you read his work or not? It is to his brothers that he
denounces our old tricks.” At one point, he seems to take his implied readers
aside, addressing the preface to them directly:

Europeans, you must open this book and enter into it. After a few steps in the
darkness you will see strangers gathered around a fire; come close, and listen,
for they are talking of a destiny they will mete out to your trading centers and
to the hired soldiers who defend them. They will see you, perhaps, but they
will be talking among themselves, without even lowering their voices. This
indifference strikes home: their fathers, shadowy creatures, your creatures,
were but dead souls; you it was who allowed them glimpses of light, to you
only did they dare to speak, and you did not bother to reply to such
zombies. . . . Turn and turn about; in these shadows from whence a new dawn
will break, it is you who are the zombies (les zombies, c’est vous!).” (13)

There are many curious aspects of this mode of address. It may well have
been presumptuous of Sartre to address those living under conditions of
colonization directly, since it would have put him in a position of pedagog-
ical power over them. He has no information to impart to them, no advice,
no explanation; and certainly no apology for European colonial dominance

211
212 Judith Butler

and, in particular, French colonial rule in Algeria. So he speaks, as it were, to

his white brethren, knowing perhaps that his own name on the preface will
attract such readers to this text by Fanon. So Sartre or, rather, Sartre’s name,
is bait for the European reader. But do we understand what “Europe” is in
this context or, for that matter, the European? Sartre himself assumes that
the European is white and a man. And so two separate zones of masculinity
are contoured when he imagines Fanon speaking to his brothers, his colo-
nized brothers, in the text, whereas Sartre speaks to his European brothers,
collaborators with the powers of colonization in one way or another.
We might ask whether these two racially divided fraternities are being
built through the modes of direct address that structure this text. Matters are
made more complex by the fact that Fanon speaks to many audiences, and
sometimes his lines of address interrupt each other. A European, in Sartre’s
view, will read this text only as a kind of eavesdropping: “Europeans, you
must open this book and enter into it. After a few steps in the darkness you
will see strangers gathered around a fire; come close, and listen (approchez,
ecoutez).” So Fanon’s text is a conversation figured as a conversation among
colonized men, and Sartre’s preface is less a conversation among the colo-
nizers than an exhortation of one to the other, asking the European to read
as one would listen to a conversation that is not meant for the one, the “you”
addressed by Sartre. Just as Sartre’s preface is not intended for the colonized
population (though we might nonetheless consider it as a kind of display of
Sartre’s politics for them), so Fanon’s text is construed as not addressed to a
white, European audience. In effect, Sartre writes, “Come listen to this text
that is not meant for you, that is not speaking to you, that cuts you out as
its audience, and learn why this text had to be addressed instead to those
living in the decolonized state of being, that is, neither fully dead nor fully
living. Come and listen to the voices that are no longer petitioning you, no
longer seeking inclusion in your world, no longer concerned with whether
you hear and understand or not.” Sartre petitions his European brothers,
presumptively white, to bear up under this rejection and indifference and to
come to understand the reasons why they are not the intended audience of
Fanon’s book. Of course, it is unclear how they could come to learn this
lesson or see this truth without becoming its audience and reading the book.
But that is the paradox at stake here. In the course of exhorting them to
“listen in” on this book, Sartre is positioning his white audience at a curious
distance where it is made at once to suffer peripheral status. The white
audience can no longer presume itself to be the intended audience, equiva-
lent to “any” reader, anonymous and implicitly universal. The paradox, as I
mentioned, is that the white brethren are asked to read on nonetheless and
are even exhorted to read on, though their reading on is to be construed as
a listening in, instating their outside status at the moment of their compre-
 Violence, Nonviolence 213

hension. This seems another way of saying: this book is for you, you would
do well to read it. The kind of displaced comprehending that Sartre proposes
for the white reader is one that deconstitutes the presumptive privilege of the
European reader in the act of taking in this new historical constellation.
Decentering and even rejection are absorbed, undergone, and a certain
undoing of the presumption of racial privilege is enacted between the lines
or, rather, in the nonaddress that is, paradoxically, delivered through Sartre’s
preface to the European. The preface thus functions as a strange mode of
delivery, handing the white reader the discourse not intended for him, and so
handing him dislocation and rejection as the condition of possibility for his
comprehension. Sartre’s writing to the European reader is a way of acting
upon that reader, positioning him outside the circle, and establishing that
peripheral status as an epistemological requirement for understanding the
condition of colonization. The European reader undergoes a loss of privilege
at the same time that he is asked to submit to an empathetic enactment with
the position of the socially excluded and effaced.
So Fanon’s text, figured by Sartre as plurivocal and fraternal—that is, as
a conversation among a group of men — undoes the notion of Fanon the
singular author. Fanon is a budding movement. His writing is the speaking
of several men. And when Fanon writes, a conversation takes place; the
written page is a meeting, one in which strategy is being planned, and a
circle is drawn tight among fellow travelers. Outside of the circle are those
who understand that this speaking is indifferent to them. A “you” is being
spoken around the fire, but the European no longer counts as part of that
“you.” He may hear the word “you” only to recognize that he is not included
within its purview. If we ask how this exclusion came about for the Euro-
pean, Sartre claims that it follows dialectically from the way that white men
suspended the humanity of the fathers of those who have lived under colo-
nialism. The sons saw their fathers humiliated, treated with indifference, and
now that very indifference has been taken up and returned to its sender in
new form.
Interestingly, it is the humanity of the fathers subjugated under colo-
nialism that is at issue here, and that implies that the dehumanization of
others under colonialism follows from the erosion of paternal authority. It is
this offense that mandates exclusion from the conversation that composes
Fanon’s text. This is a choreography of men, some forming inner circles,
some cast to the periphery, and it is their manhood or, rather, the manhood
of their fathers, that is at stake in the direct address. Not to be addressed as
a “you” is to be treated as less than a man. And yet, as we will see, the
“you” functions in at least two ways in Fanon: as the direct address that
establishes human dignity through masculinization and as the direct address
that establishes the question of humanity beyond the framework of
214 Judith Butler

masculinization and feminization alike. In either case, though, the “you”

does not merely refer to the one who is addressed, but address itself is the
condition of becoming a human, one who is constituted within the scene of
address.2
If the excluded European asks why he is not privy to the conversation,
then he must consider the implications of being treated with indifference.
The problem to consider is not just that colonizers bear bad attitudes toward
the colonized. If the colonized are excluded from the conversation in which
humans are not only addressed but constituted through the address, the very
possibility of being constituted as a human is foreclosed. To be excluded
from the conversation is the unmaking of the human as such. The fathers of
these men were not treated as men, certainly not addressed, directly or other-
wise, as men, and so, failing that address, they were never fully constituted
as human. If we seek to understand their ontology, these men who were
never addressed as men, we find that no fixed determination is possible. The
face-to-face address to a “you” has the capacity to confer a certain acknowl-
edgment, to include the other in the potentially reciprocal exchange of
speech; without that acknowledgment and that possibility for reciprocal
address, no human may emerge. In the place of the human a specter takes
form, what Sartre refers to as the “zombie,” the shadow figure who is never
quite human and never quite not. So if we are to tell the prehistory of this
complex scene of address within Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, or
rather the two scenes of address that separate its traditional preface from the
text itself, we would begin, according to Sartre, with the view that the colo-
nizers had no “you” for the colonized, that they could and would not address
them directly, and, as a result, withheld a certain ontological determination,
one that follows only through recognition as a reciprocal exchange, a mutu-
ally constituting set of acts.
The colonizer had no “you” for the colonized, but once again, in Sartre’s
preface, the “you” is paradoxical, and again, not deployed for the colonized,
but reserved exclusively for the colonizer. Who will speak to the colonized?
For Fanon, the colonizer is not the “you,” or so Sartre tells us, but for Sartre,
the colonized is not the “you.” So Sartre continues the very tradition of
nonaddress that he seeks to indict. Sartre speaks as a spectral double: in the
name of the European who shows how deconstituting his own privilege is
apparently done, but also in a prescriptive vein, calling upon other Euro-
peans to do the same. When Sartre effectively says “you” are not the intended
reader of this text, he constitutes the group who ought to undergo the decon-
stitution of their privilege; in addressing them, however, he does not
de-constitute them, but rather constitutes them anew. The problem, of
course, is that in addressing them as the privileged, as one privileged speaker
to another, he solidifies their privilege as well. And where before, in with-
 Violence, Nonviolence 215

holding address from the colonized, the colonizers imperiled an ontological

determination for them, now, in Sartre’s usage, the “you”—directed toward
his European counterparts—is being asked to assume responsibility for this
colonial condition of destitution. Sartre mobilizes the second person, strikes
out with his “you” in order to accuse and demand accountability: “their
fathers, shadowy creatures, your creatures, were but dead souls; you it was
who allowed them glimpses of light, to you only did they dare to speak, and
you did not bother to reply to such zombies.”

In the stark scene of colonial subjugation that Sartre lays out, the colonized
did not address each other but spoke only to you, the colonizer. If they could
have addressed one another, they would have started to take shape within a
legible social ontology, they would have risked existence through this
communicative circuit. They only dared to speak to “you”—in other words,
you were the exclusive audience for any direct address. You [the colonizer]
did not bother to reply, for to reply would have meant to confer a certain
human status on the one speaking to you. The mode of address, far from
being a simple rhetorical technique, enacts the social constitution of
ontology. Or let me put it more starkly: The mode of address enacts the
social possibility of a livable existence. Correspondingly, refusing to reply
to or address another who speaks, or requiring an asymmetrical form of
address according to which the one in power is the exclusive audience for the
second person—these are all ways of deconstituting ontology and orches-
trating a nonlivable life. This is clearly the paradox of dying while alive, a
further permutation of what Orlando Patterson, invoking Hegel in the
context of describing slavery, called social death.3 And there, as well as
here, this social death touches fathers first, which means it leaves its legacy
of shame and rage for the sons. Most importantly, social death is a not a
static condition but a perpetually lived contradiction that takes shape as a
particularly masculine conundrum. In the context of Algeria and the war for
independence, the colonized man is left with a choice that cannot culminate
in a livable life: “If he shows fight, the soldiers fire and he’s a dead man; if
he gives in, he degrades himself and he is no longer a man at all; shame and
fear will split up his character and make his inmost self fall to pieces” (15).
Of what use is it for the European man to know of this impossible choice,
of this historical formation of the life-and-death struggle within Algerian
colonialism? Although Fanon’s book is not written as a petition to the Euro-
pean liberal to see his complicity with the violence in Algeria, Sartre’s preface
clearly is. Sartre imagines his interlocutor: “In this case, you will say, let’s
throw away this book. Why read it if it is not written for us?” (13). Sartre
offers two reasons, and they are worth drawing attention to here: The first is
that the book gives those for whom it is not intended, the European elite, a
216 Judith Butler

chance to understand themselves. The collective subject designated by the

“we” is reflected back to themselves in an objective mode through the “scars”
(blessures) and the “chains” (leur fers) of our victims. What, he asks, have we
made of ourselves? In a sense, Fanon’s work gives the European man a chance
to know himself, and so to engage in that pursuit of self-knowledge, based
upon an examination of his shared practices, that is proper to the philosoph-
ical foundations of human life, as Sartre understands it.
The second reason he gives is that “Fanon is the first since Engels to
bring the processes of history into the clear light of day” (apart from
Georges Sorel, he claims, whose work Sartre considers to be fascist) (14).
What is meant by the processes of history here? Which processes, and
through what means are they brought to light? The process of history is
dialectical, but the situation of the colonized is a “portrait”—to use Albert
Memmi’s term—of a dialectical movement at an impasse. Sartre predicts
that decolonization is an historical necessity nonetheless, precisely because
the effort to annihilate the other is never fully successful. Capitalism requires
the labor power of the colonized. “Because,” Sartre writes, “[the colonizer]
can’t carry massacre on to genocide, and slavery to animal-like degrada-
tion, he loses control, the machine goes into reverse, and a relentless logic
leads him on to decolonization” (16).
So we can see at least two further purposes at work in Sartre’s preface at
this point. He is arguing, on the one hand, that the scars and chains of the
colonized here brought to light reflect back the colonizer to himself, and in
this way become instrumental to the European task of self-knowledge. On
the other hand, he is arguing that the scars and the chains are, as it were,
the motors of history, the pivotal moments; as the animating traces of a
subjugation just short of death, these scars and chains mobilize an inex-
orable historical logic that, in turn, culminates in the demise of colonial
power. In the first instance, the scars and chains reflect not only the actions
of European power but also the default implications of European liberalism.
For while the liberal opposes violence and considers colonial violence to be
part of what happens elsewhere, the liberal also endorses a version of the
state that marshals violence in the name of preserving that liberalism against
a putative barbarism. I want to suggest that the scars and chains are in this
regard considered instrumental, producing a reflection of the violence of
European liberalism but only as part of the larger reflexive project of self-
knowledge, self-critique, and even self-deconstitution on the part of a
European elite. In the second instance, the scars and chains are understood
as signs of an unfolding historical logic, one that conditions and drives the
agency of the colonized as they oppose colonialism by every means possible.
These two ways of considering suffering under colonialism maintain a
distance from the humanist point of view that would simply and emphati-
 Violence, Nonviolence 217

cally oppose such suffering as morally wrong. Sartre openly worries about
a liberal humanism that is blind to the political conditions of morally objec-
tionable suffering, since one could oppose the suffering on moral grounds
and leave unchanged the political conditions that regenerate it again and
again. Suffering under colonialism thus needs to be situated politically. And
within such a context, suffering of this kind, although deplorable, or
precisely because it is deplorable, constitutes a resource for political move-
ments. The scars and chains figure in at least two ways, both as the effects
of criminal deeds and as the motors of history—a notion to which I will
return shortly. At worst, a European liberal can oppose suffering under colo-
nialism without necessarily engaging in a critique of the state formation that
outsources its violence to preserve its spuriously humanist self-definition. If
there are parallels with our contemporary political situation, especially
with the outsourcing of torture, that is not by accident, since the colonial
condition is by no means definitively past.
In a new introduction to The Wretched of the Earth, Homi Bhabha asks
explicitly what this tract concerning decolonization has to say to the present
circumstance of globalization (xi). He notes that whereas decolonization
anticipates the “freedom” of the postcolonial, globalization is preoccupied
with the “strategic denationalization of state sovereignty” (xi). And whereas
decolonization sought to establish new national territories, globalization
confronts a world of transnational connections and circuitry. Rightly,
Bhabha rejects the historiography that would posit the succession of colon-
alism by postcolonialism, and then, ultimately, by globalization in the
current epoch. In Bhabha’s terms, colonialism persists within the postcolo-
nial and, in his words, “the colonial shadow falls across the successes of
globalization.” Within globalization, dual economies are established that
produce profitable circumstances for an economic elite and institute persis-
tent “poverty, malnutrition, caste and racial injustice.” This is, of course,
the case that has been made concerning neoliberal strategies within global-
ization as well. In Bhabha’s argument, though, “The critical language of
duality—whether colonial or global—is part of the spatial imagination that
seems to come so naturally to geopolitical thinking of a progressive, post-
colonial cast of mind: margin and metropole, center and periphery, the
global and the local, the nation and the world” (xiv).
As much as these divisions persist, it may be that Fanon offers us a way to
think beyond these polarities and thus takes a certain distance from the
instant binarism of Sartre’s preface. Bhabha, for instance, sees in Fanon a
trenchant critique of these polarities in the name of a future that will intro-
duce a new order of things. Bhabha discerns the critique of these polarities
through the specific rhetorical use of the term “third world” in Fanon. The
“third” is the term that will destabilize the polarities of colonization, and it
218 Judith Butler

constitutes a place holder for the future itself. Thus, Bhabha cites Fanon:
“The Third World must start over a new history of Man” (xiv).
Fanon’s text, in Bhabha’s view, creates a way of understanding moments
of transition, especially in those political economies and political vocabu-
laries that seek to get beyond the partitions bequeathed by the Cold War.
What is important about these moments of transition is their “incuba-
tional” status, to use a Gramscian term. Bhabha claims that “ ‘new’
national, international, or global emergences create an unsettling sense of
transition”(xvi). He maintains that Fanon, rather than remaining content
with the establishment of a new nationalism, conducts a nuanced critique
of ethnonationalism. In Bhabha’s view, Fanon’s contribution consists in
supplying a picture of the “global future” as a “an ethical and political
project—yes, a plan of action as well as a projected aspiration” (xvi).
Bhabha’s reading implies moving beyond the established grounds of a
humanism to re-pose the question of the human as one that must open up a
future. We might well wonder whether humanism has had such established
grounds, and this seems reasonable to ask. But let me make the point more
precisely: If we object to the suffering under colonialism, even decry it,
without calling for a basic transformation of the structures of colonialism,
then our objection remains at that register of moral principle that can attend
only to the deleterious effects of political systems without attempting a
broader social transformation of those conditions that generate those
effects. This does not mean that we have to retract our objections to
suffering, but only that we must exchange that form of humanism for an
inquiry that asks: What has happened to the very notion of the human under
such conditions? Our objections to suffering then become part of an opera-
tion of critique and a way of opening up the human to a different future.
But even if we get this far with the argument, we are still left with the
question of violence and what precisely its role is in the making of the
human. Bhabha reads Fanon’s discussion of insurrectionary violence as
“part of a struggle for psychoaffective survival and a search for human
agency in the midst of oppression” (xxxix). Violence holds out the possibility
of acting, of agency, and it also rebels against a social death, even as it
cannot escape the parameters of violence and potential death. Indeed, under
these conditions of colonial subjugation, violence is a wager and a sign that
there is an ongoing psychoaffective struggle to be. For Sartre, however, the
matter is less equivocal, at least in these pages, about the role of violence in
the making of the human, even within the horizon of posthumanism. If for
Nietzsche the categorical imperative is soaked in blood, then for Sartre a
certain kind of humanism surely is soaked in blood as well.
In both prefaces, Sartre’s and Bhabha’s, there is a question of the human
to come. Their writings precede Fanon’s text, but come later, and the ques-
 Violence, Nonviolence 219

tion they pose before Fanon’s text begins to be read is whether there is a
future for the human opened up by this text. There is in both prefatory
writings a way of thinking about the human beyond humanism, and this is
part of what the Sartrean preface tries to do, in the mode and through the
example of direct address. When Sartre writes “you,” he is trying to bring
down one version of man and bring about another. But his performative
appelations do not have the force of God’s, so something invariably misfires
and we find ourselves in a bind. Is Sartre perhaps posing as a superhuman
agent in thinking he can destroy and make man in the image he so desires?
Just as the performative force of Sartre’s direct address does not straight-
away bring about a new man, neither do the scars and chains straightaway
bring about the end of colonialism. Finally, though, we have to understand
whether, for Sartre, violence is generative of a “new man”—and whether, in
saying that this is also Fanon’s view, Sartre is rightly citing him or making
free use of his text for his own purposes.
While I will hope to show that it is a specific cultural formation of the
human that Sartre traces and applauds here, one that I would call
“masculinist,” it seems important to keep in mind that in Fanon, and perhaps
in Sartre as well, there is both a demand for a restitution of masculinism as
well as an effort to query who the “you” might be beyond the strictures of
gender. Sartre’s effort to think the human on the far side of a certain kind
of liberal humanism cannot resolve the equivocation at the heart of homme
as both “man” and “human.” But certain possibilities nevertheless emerge
from that equivocal designator; interestingly, it is the “you”—the second
person—that disrupts its usual signifying circuits.
Sartre clears textual space for the reflexivity of the European man—his
perennial first-person task to know himself. But does the colonized have
any such reflexivity? Sartre locates the mobilizing wounds of the colonized
that produce decolonization as an historical inevitability, as if those
wounds did not have to pass through the reflexive subjectivity of the
wounded. In this way, he seems to eclipse the reflexivity of the colonized
in his preface. This is evident not only in the politesse with which Sartre
refuses to address the colonized, reiterating a nonaddress that he himself
diagnoses as the root of their suspended humanity, but also in his treat-
ment of counterinsurgent violence as if it were a determined or mechanized
reaction and precisely not the deliberative or reflective decision of a set of
political subjects engaged in a political movement. Indeed, when we ask
about the agency of insurgent, anticolonial violence, it turns out that the
only real agent of violence is that of the colonizer. Sartre says as much
when he claims that the “only violence is the settler’s” (17). In arguing this,
Sartre seeks to derive the violence of colonial insurrection from the primacy
of state violence, casting revolutionary violence as a secondary effect of a
220 Judith Butler

primary form of violent oppression. If the colonized respond with violence,

their violence is nothing other than a transposition or transmutation of the
violence done to them. Fanon’s formulation differs slightly from the
Sartrean account when Fanon claims, in the first chapter of Wretched called
“Concerning Violence,”

The violence which has ruled over the ordering of the colonial world, which
has ceaselessly drummed the rhythm for the destruction of native social forms
and broken up without reserve the systems of reference of the economy, the
customs of dress and external life, that same violence will be claimed and taken
over by the native at the moment when, deciding to embody history in his
own person, he surges into forbidden quarters. (40, my emphasis)

The violence travels, passes hands, but can we say that it remains the
settler’s violence? Does it actually belong to either party if the violence
remains the same as it shifts from the violence imposed by the ruler to the
violence wielded by the colonized? It would seem to be fundamentally trans-
ferable. But this is not the Sartrean view. Indeed, his view makes the
colonizer into the only subject of violence. And this claim seems to contra-
dict his other claim; namely, that under these conditions, violence can be
understood to bring the human into being. If we subscribe to his first thesis,
we are left with the conclusion, surely faulty, that colonization is a precon-
dition for humanization, something that civilizational justifications for
colonization have always maintained, and a view which, we would have to
surmise, Sartre wanted vehemently to oppose.

Sartre makes several efforts to account for violent resistance on the part of
the colonized. He takes on the charge leveled by colonialists that there are
simply base or animal instincts at work in these apparently precivilizational
peoples. Sartre asks, “what instincts does he mean? The instincts that urge
slaves to massacre their master? Can he not here recognize his own cruelty
turned against himself?” (16). Anticipating his claim that “the only violence
is the settler’s,” he remarks here that the colonizer finds in the violence of the
colonized only his own violence. The colonized are said to have “absorbed”
the settler’s cruelty through every pore. And though the colonized are said to
take in and take on the violence by which they are oppressed, as if through
the inexorable force of transitivity, the colonized are also said to become
who they are “by the deep-seated refusal of that which others have made of
[them]” (17).
Here Sartre seems to subscribe to a theory of psychological absorption
or mimeticism that would simply transfer the violence of the colonizer onto
and into the violence of the colonized. In his view, the colonized absorb and
 Violence, Nonviolence 221

recreate the violence done to them, but they also refuse to become what the
colonized have made of them (17). If this is a contradiction, it is one in
which the colonized are forced to live. Just as, earlier, we remarked upon
the impossible choice: “if he shows fight, he will be killed; if he gives in, he
degrades himself.” He is made violent by the violence done to him, but this
violence puts his own life at risk; if he fails to become violent, he remains its
victim, and “shame and fear will split up his character and make his inmost
self fall to pieces” (15). Shame because he could not or would not assume
violence to counter violence, and fear since he knows how precarious and
extinguishable his life finally is under violently imposed colonial rule.
The problem of violence, then, seems to appear here, in what Bhabha calls
“psychoaffective survival,” from a self imperiled by shame and fear, one
that is internally split up and at risk of falling into pieces. The question is
whether anything can stop this fatal splintering of the self and why violence
appears as the route toward selfhood, agency, and even life. Note that this
self is distinct from the one who simply absorbs or uncritically mimes and
returns the violence done against him. There is, here, a passage through a
decimated self that has to be navigated, and violence appears as one route
out. Is it the only route? And did Fanon think so?
In order to answer this, we have first to understand what happens to
violence when it is taken up or taken on by the colonized in the name of an
insurgent resistance. It is only “at first” that violence is the settler’s, and
then, later, it is made into their own. Is the violence that the colonized make
into their own different from the violence imposed upon them by the
settler’s? When Sartre endeavors to explain this secondary violence, the one
derived from the settler colonialist, he remarks that it is “the same violence
[that is] thrown back upon us as when our reflection comes forward to
meet us when we go toward a mirror” (17). This description suggests that
the insurgent violence is nothing but the reflection of the colonizer’s
violence, as if a symmetry exists between them, and the second follows only
as the dialectical reflection of the first. But this cannot be fully true. Since,
the colonizer “no longer remembers clearly that he was a man; he takes
himself to be a horsewhip or a gun,” (16) but violence is precisely the means
through which the colonized “become men” (17). Later he remarks that the
“European has only been able to become a man through creating slaves
and monsters” (26). So it would appear that Sartre maintains at least two
different conceptions of the human here. The colonizer forgets that he is a
man when he becomes violent, but the particular sort of man that he
becomes is dependent on this violence. As I mentioned earlier, Sartre uses
the term “homme” for “human” here, and the equivocation runs deep
throughout the argument. But it would seem that the colonizer who has
forgotten that he is a “man,” crazed by the fear of losing his absolute
222 Judith Butler

power, becomes a gun or a horsewhip and seeks to attack the men he does
not regard as men, who have also, by virtue of this violent encounter,
become, as well, precisely a horsewhip or a gun.
So many men seem to be forgotten in this scene. Who is this forgotten
man? And who is the man to come? The colonized is said to become a
“man” through violence, but we know that the violence that the colonized
takes on is at first the settler’s violence. But does the colonized separate
from the settler’s violence, and does this very separation serve as a condi-
tion of the “becoming human” of the colonized? Sartre is clear that the
“hidden anger” that various forms of humanism condemn is actually the
“the last refuge of their humanity.” In that anger Sartre reads both the
effect of colonial legacy as well as the refusal of that legacy, a knot, a
contradiction, that produces a finally unlivable bind and then a demand
for total change. Violence becomes a clear alternative when a life of contin-
uing famine and oppression seems far worse than death (20). At this point,
Sartre writes, “there is only one duty to be done, one end to achieve: to
thrust out colonialism by every means in their power.” Sartre’s portrayal of
insurgent violence is meant to provide insight into the person who lives
under such oppression. As such, it serves as a reconstruction of an induced
psychological state. It also reads as a fully instrumental rationalization for
violence and, thus, as a normative claim. Indeed, the violent acts by which
decolonization is achieved are also those by which man “recreates himself ”
(21). Sartre is describing a psychopolitical reality, but he is also offering, we
might say, a new humanism to confound the old, one that requires, under
these social conditions, violence to materialize. He writes, “no gentleness
can efface the marks of violence, only violence itself can destroy them”
(21).4 Of course, we have to ask whether violence itself, said to efface the
marks of violence, does not simply make more such marks, leaving new
legacies of violence in its wake.
Moreover, weren’t those very scars and chains necessary to motor the
revolution? The scars and chains served a double purpose: First, they
reflected back to the European the consequences of his failed humanism, his
exported colonial domination; second, they were said to animate the inex-
orable logic of decolonization in history and are now precisely what stand
to be “effaced” through the acts of violence that effect that decolonization.
These scars and chains serve as mirrors for the European, serve as historical
motors for the colonized, and are finally negated, if not fully transformed,
through the act of self-creation. The existential dicta to know and to create
oneself thus makes its appearance toward the end of Sartre’s provocative
preface, when he claims that the violent acts of the colonized finally estab-
lish him as existential subject par excellence: “When his rage boils over, he
 Violence, Nonviolence 223

rediscovers his lost innocence and he comes to know himself in that he

himself creates his self ” (21). Of course, this self-making is a curious one,
since the violence seems to be induced by an historically inevitable dialectical
development, but this form of determinism is not yet reconciled with the
theory of self-constitution in Sartre, and the tension between the two posi-
tions turns out to bear significant implications.

Sartre began this preface with an allocation of pronouns according to a strict

division of labor. Fanon will speak to the colonized; Sartre will speak to the
European, especially the liberal man in France who understands himself to
be morally and politically at a distance from the events in Algeria and the
French colonies. Sartre will not speak to the colonized, and we presume
that this is so because he does not want to occupy a morally didactic posi-
tion. He suggests that the Europeans listen in, and that they be made to
suffer their peripheral status to the conversation at hand. And yet, Sartre will
characterize through a psychological portrait the violence of the colonized
and then claim that the man who engages in violent acts of overthrow fulfills
his own existential Marxism. In deconstituting the social conditions of dehu-
manization, the colonized effects his own decolonization, and through this
double negation makes himself a man: “The new man,” Sartre writes,
“begins his life as a man at the end of it; he considers himself a potential
corpse” (23). To say that the man is potentially dead is to say that he lives
this potentiality in the present, so that death is hardly risked; it functions as
an epistemic certainty, if not a defining feature of his existence. Bhabha
refers to this as a “life-in-death.” To finally die is thus to realize what has
already been mandated as true or necessary. And yet to die in the service of
deconstituting these conditions of social death is done precisely in the name
of future life and future men.
It is in this preface, you will remember, that Sartre debunks Camus’s
earlier position on nonviolence.5 The believers in nonviolence, he quips, say
that they are “neither executioners nor victims.” But Sartre refuses the effort
to sidestep this binary alternative, claiming instead that nonviolence and
passivity is tantamount to complicity, and, entering into a direct address,
remarks that “your passivity serves only to place you in the ranks of the
oppressors” (25). What it requires is a deconstitution of the notion of man,
especially if to be a man, as Sartre claims, is to be an accomplice to colo-
nialism. Only through the deconstitution of this version of being a man can
the history of the human unfold. We are not given much idea of what the
final unfolding of the human will look like, but Sartre offers a brief remark
toward the end of the essay where he imagines a history of humankind that
culminates in a future state of becoming “full-grown.” When human kind
224 Judith Butler

reaches this state, he claims, “it will not define itself as the sum total of the
world’s inhabitants, but as the infinite unity of their mutual needs” (27).

Here, at the end of a piece that is widely regarded as an encomium to

violence, Sartre takes another turn, manifesting perhaps the fundamental
ambivalence of his views on violence that have been ably demonstrated in
Ronald Santoni’s recent book Sartre on Violence: Curiously Ambivalent.6
Obviously, this vision of the infinite unity of mutual needs that might exist
among the world’s inhabitants is one in which physical need and vulnera-
bility would become matters for mutual recognition and regard. If we
consider what Fanon claims about violence, we can see there as well a
certain understanding that violence has its place in the overcoming of colo-
nialism, but also a recognition that it brings with it a nihilism, a corrosive
spirit of absolute negation. If he argues that it can be no other way under
such conditions of oppression, he argues as well that such conditions of
oppression must be fully overcome in order for violence no longer to pervade
social life. What is remarkable about Fanon’s view, perhaps put more
strongly than Sartre is willing to replicate, is that the body itself becomes
historical precisely through an embodiment of social conditions. The
wrecked and muted body is not merely an example of the condition of colo-
nial rule; it is its instrument and effect, and moreover, colonial rule is not
without such instruments and effects. The destitution of the body is not only
an effect of colonialism, where colonialism is understood as something prior,
something separate, a “condition” both analytically and historically separate
from the body at issue. On the contrary, the body is the animated or, rather,
deanimated life of that historical condition, without which colonization
itself cannot exist. Colonization is the deadening of sense, the establishment
of the body in social death, as one that lives and breathes its potentiality as
death, and so working and reproducing its force at the somatic and affec-
tive level.
It would seem then that any effort to reconstruct the human after
humanism, that is, after humanism’s complicity with colonialism, would
have to include an understanding of humans as those who may suffer death
in advance of the cessation of bodily function, who suffer it at the heart of
life itself. If humans are those kinds of beings who depend on social condi-
tions to breath and move and live, then it is precisely at the psychophysical
level that the human is being redefined in Fanon. This is a psyche that is
“crushed with inessentiality” and a body that is restricted in its fundamental
mobility. There are places it may not go, first-person utterances it may not
inhabit and compose, ways in which it cannot know or sustain itself as an
“I.” It has not come to know itself as the “you” addressed by the other, and
 Violence, Nonviolence 225

so when it addresses itself, it misses its mark, vacillating between a certitude

of its nonexistence and an inflated notion of its future power.
If there is a cult of masculinism that emerges from this situation, perhaps
it is explained by Fanon’s description of the fantasy of muscular power.
Showing his own alliances with a European educated class and with a civi-
lizational project, Fanon refers to the indigenous population of Algeria as
“the native” and then proceeds to offer his own portrait of his psychological
circumstances. He describes first the facts of spatial restriction: “the native”
is hemmed in, learns that there are places he cannot go, becomes defined by
this limitation on spatial motility. Consequently, the idea of himself that
compensates for this restriction takes on hyperbolic forms:

This is why the dreams of the native are always of muscular prowess; his
dreams are of action and aggression. I dream I am jumping, swimming,
running, climbing; I dream I burst out laughing, that I span a river in one
stride, or that I am followed by a flood of motorcars which never catch up with
me. (52)

Fanon regards this hypermuscularity, this superhuman capacity for action

to be compensatory, impossible, fantasmatic, but fully understandable under
such conditions. When he claims that the oppressed dream of becoming the
persecutor, he is giving us a psychosocial description of the fantasies that
take hold under such conditions. He is not necessarily arguing for them,
although he will also oppose both nonviolence and compromise as political
options during the War for Independence in 1961. His argument is strategic:
If the decolonized decide upon violence, it is only because they are already in
the midst of violence. Violence was not only done in the past, but violence
is what continues to happen to them and so forms the horizon of political
life. Thus, it is a matter of seizing violence and giving it a new turn. He
writes, “Now the problem is to lay hold of this violence that is changing
direction” (58). Violence here is not defended as a way of life, and certainly
not a way of imagining the normative goal of a social movement. It is an
instrumentality in the service of invention.
Of course, there is a question of whether violence as a pure instrument
can remain such, or whether it comes to define, haunt, and afflict the polity
that instates itself through violent means. Neither Sartre nor Fanon ask this
question. Whether the aspiration is either to create man anew, or to produce
a community defined as an infinite unity of mutual needs, or to achieve
decolonization, we have to ask whether violence continues to play a role in
what it means to create oneself, what it means to produce such a community,
what it means to achieve and sustain decolonization as a goal. It seems clear
226 Judith Butler

that violence drops out of the picture when we imagine a community defined
as an infinite unity of mutual needs. And violence would not necessarily have
a role to play once an unequivocal decolonization is achieved — if that,
indeed, proves possible. Where the role of violence is most difficult to under-
stand is in the model of self-creation. It might be easy enough to say that
only under the conditions of colonization does violence emerge as a key
means through which man makes himself, and that without colonization
self-making is no longer achieved through violent means. This position
would distinguish itself from one that models self-making on violent nega-
tion, that is, the position that claims that all self-making requires violence
as a matter of course. Fanon is clear at the end of The Wretched of the Earth
that the task of decolonization is to create or invent “a new man,” one that
will not constitute a simple of faithful reflection of European man.
Can we think self-invention in Fanon outside the concept of violence?
And if we cannot, is that because violence is necessitated under conditions of
colonization, the context that limits what he himself can imagine in 1961?
At the end of his book, does he leave open the possibility of a new kind of
self-making yet to be imagined? Can he not supply it precisely because he is
not yet historically there, in the place where it can be imagined?
What seems clear is that to be colonized is to be humiliated as a man and
that this castration is unendurable. It is the wife of the colonized who is
raped or disregarded, and this is for Fanon an offense to the man, the
husband, more profoundly than to the woman herself. Rey Chow and others
have examined the pervasive masculinism in Fanon’s work, and I do not
want to belabor it here.7 But I do want to make two points that lead us
toward another way of thinking. First, it strikes me that Fanon understands
masculine violent fantasy as compensatory, and this suggests that he under-
stands the fantasmatic dimension of a hypermasculinism. As such, it does
not serve as a moral ideal toward which the decolonized should strive.
Rather, it serves as a motivational component in the struggle toward decol-
onization. The distinction is important, since it would follow that, under
conditions of decolonization, hypermasculinity as a fantasmatic ideal would
lose its force as a compensatory motivation for conduct and as a fantasmatic
model for self-making. A gendered man would have to cross a river like any
other mortal: Decolonization does not promise god-like powers and, if it
does, necessarily fails to make good on its word.
Although Sartre restrictively makes use of the “you” to constitute and
deconstitute his European reader and to divide two different fraternities, the
colonizers and the colonized, Fanon offers another version of direct address
that moves beyond this rigid binary and that holds out the possibility of
thinking the human apart from “man.” When, for instance, Fanon prays to
his body at the end of Black Skins, White Masks, “O my body, make of me
 Violence, Nonviolence 227

always a man who questions!” he calls for a kind of openness that is at

once bodily and conscious. He addresses himself and seeks to reconstitute
himself through a direct address to his own body. As if countering the
psychoaffective dying-in-life that pervades the lived experience of the colo-
nized, Fanon seeks to prompt the body into an open-ended inquiry. In the
line directly preceding, he posits a new collectivity: “I want the world to
recognize, with me, the open door of every consciousness” (232). He asks for
recognition neither of his national identity nor his gender, but rather a
collective act of recognition that would accord every consciousness its status
as something infinitely open. And though he could not have anticipated what
that universalizable recognition would mean for gender relations, it is
nonetheless there as an incipient and unintended implication of his own
words, words which perhaps carry more radical vision than he himself could
do nearly a decade later when he wrote The Wretched of the Earth. “O my
body”—this cry enacts a certain reflexivity, an address to oneself precisely
as a body not crushed by its inessentiality, but conditioning a certain perma-
nent and open question. This body, beseeched through address, is posited as
an opening toward the world and toward a radically egalitarian collectivity.
There is no God to whom he prays, but a body, one characterized precisely
by what it does not yet know. This moment is doubtless repeated at the end
of The Wretched of the Earth, despite the profound differences between
these two texts. At the end of Wretched, Fanon does not know what new
version of man will be invented once decolonization takes place. There is an
openness toward the future that is far from the omnipotent claim, indeed, is
emphatically unknowing and nonprescriptive about what will come.
Perhaps I seize upon this call to his own body to open again to a world
and, more radically, to join with others in recognizing the “open door” of
every consciousness precisely because it posits an alternative to the hyper-
resolute masculinism of anticolonial violence. Of course, Black Skin, White
Masks was written nine years prior to The Wretched of the Earth, but
perhaps they can be read together to consider in what this new invention of
man or, indeed, this notion of humanity might consist. After all, the call to
arms and the critique of pacifism and compromise demand that, for the
moment, the police or the white Algerian or the government official not be
understood as one whose consciousness is an “open door.” Indeed, violence
against the other closes the door of that consciousness, since according to the
logic of violence “the open door” of the enemy’s consciousness threatens to
close the door of my own. According to the argument of Wretched, if I am
living as the colonized, then to open the door of my own consciousness is
only possible through the closing of the door of the other’s. It is a life-or-
death struggle. At the moment I do violence to an Other — one who
oppresses me or who represents that oppression or who is complicitous
228 Judith Butler

with that oppression—I make room not only for my own self-invention but
for a new notion of the human that will not be based on racial or colonial
oppression and violence.
At the end of Black Skin, White Masks, Fanon addresses himself. This
mode of address is not considered in the Sartrean preface, but it remains, per-
haps, the most insurrectionary of his speech acts, allegorizing the emergent
self-constituting powers of the colonized unconditioned by any historical or
causal necessity. There he writes that only by recapturing and scrutinizing the
self can the ideal conditions for a human world come to exist. “Why not,” he
writes, “the quite simple attempt to touch the other, to feel the other, to
explain the other to myself?” (231). This sentence is cast in question form,
and it seems to be that self-scrutiny implies this interrogatory relation to the
Other as a matter of course. He makes this explicit in the next line when he
writes, “Was my freedom not given to me then in order to build the world of
the You?”(231). We do not know at this moment whether the “you” is the
colonized or the colonizer, whether it is also a reaching, a relationality, that
constitutes the intentional enthrallment of the “I” as it finds itself outside of
itself, enmeshed in the world of others. Self-scrutiny is not merely an inward
turn but a mode of address: o you, o my body. This is an appeal as much to
his own corporeal life, the restoration of the body as the ground of agency, as
it is to the other; it is an address, indeed, a touch, facilitated by the body, one
that, for complex reasons, commits itself to regarding each and every con-
sciousness as an open door. If the body opens him toward a “you,” it opens
him in such a way that the other, through bodily means, becomes capable of
addressing a “you” as well. Implicit to both modes of address is the under-
standing of the body, through its touch, securing the open address not just of
this tactile other but of every other body. In this sense, a recorporealization of
humanism seems to take hold here that posits an alternative to violence or,
paradoxically, the idea of the unfolded human toward which it strives (and
which it must refute in order to realize in the end). Over and against the view
that there can be no self-creation without violence, Fanon here exemplifies
the philosophical truth that there can be no invention of oneself without the
“you” and that the “self” is constituted precisely in a mode of address that
avows its constitutive sociality.
When Sartre writes of Wretched, “What does Fanon care whether you
read his work or not? It is to his brothers that he denounces our old tricks,”
he seems to be telling us that we may not read Wretched in light of the “you”
that forms the ultimate address in Black Skin, White Masks. It is true that in
the conclusion to Wretched, Fanon addresses “my comrades” and “my
brothers.” The “you” that closes the earlier work is now specified and
restricted, but note that even in Wretched, he does not call on them to return
to ethnic or national identity; no, he calls on them to create a new version of
 Violence, Nonviolence 229

man, and so to inaugurate a universality that has never yet been established
on this, admittedly wretched, earth. Indeed, what form this universal human
may take is unknown, remains a question, and so the opening of the earlier
work—the opening toward the “you” facilitated through the body—is finally
echoed in the opening that closed the later one. Even in Wretched, there is
this holding out, finally, for invention, for the new, for an opening that may
depend upon a prior violence, but which also presupposes its resolution.
Fanon’s address to the body to open and to question, to join in a struggle
to recognize the openness of every other embodied consciousness — this
struggle toward a new universality begins, perhaps, precisely when decolo-
nization ends. This would mean that, philosophically, Black Skin, White
Masks would have to follow The Wretched of the Earth. The effort to
“touch” the “you” in Black Skin, White Masks would appear to be very
different from the contact that constitutes violent negation. When Sartre
refers to the “the infinite unity” of the “mutual needs” of all inhabitants of
this earth, he does not appeal to everyone’s capacity for violence, but, rather,
to the reciprocal requirements that human embodiment implies: food,
shelter, protection of life and liberty, means of recognition, conditions for
work and political participation without which no human can emerge or be
sustained. The human, in this sense, is both contingent and aspirational,
dependent and not yet accomplished or realized.
I am reminded at this moment of that most extraordinary remark that
Sartre makes in the 1975 interview with Michel Contat entitled “Self-
Portrait at Seventy” where he refers to the prospect of “subjective life”
being “offered up” and “given.” In the preface to Fanon’s Wretched, Sartre
cannot address the colonized, does not understand it as his place. And yet,
without such an address, how is a new politics of the human possible? He
seems to know in this late interview that the future of the human is instituted
through a certain mode of address that reorganizes gender, recalling Fanon,
his address to himself and to the “you.”

We yield our bodies to everyone, even beyond the realm of sexual relations:
by looking, by touching. You yield your body to me, I yield mine to you: we
exist for the other, as body. But we do not exist in the same way as conscious-
ness, as ideas, even though ideas are modifications of the body. If we truly
wished to exist for the other, to exist as body, as body that can continually be
laid bare—even if this never actually happens—our ideas would appear to
others as coming from the body. Words are formed by a tongue in the mouth.
All ideas would appear in this way, even the most vague, the most fleeting, the
least tangible. There would no longer be the hiddenness, the secrecy in certain
centuries that was identified with the honor of men and women, and which
seems very foolish to me. (Life/Situations, 11–12)
230 Judith Butler

Although Sartre holds out for an impossible transparency, for him such
an impossible ideal maintains the ideality and infinite potentiality of desire
itself. Of course, “the honor of men and women” holds them in distinct rela-
tions, articulates and maintains that difference, but it does more. If
emasculation is the sign of dehumanization, then the masculine is the
presumptive norm of humanization. That differential norm can only dehu-
manize in turn, so if, in these strange final confessions, Fanon and Sartre
both concede that there is a touch and form of yielding that establishes a
relation to a “you,” then it would seem that in the place of a struggle over
which masculine community will finally prevail, we find a pronoun that is
open-ended precisely on the question of gender. It was Arendt who suggested
that the question, “who are you?” is at the basis of participatory democ-
racy.8 On this basis, Adriana Cavarero, the Italian feminist philosopher calls
for a rehabilitation of the “you” at the core of politics.9
The “you” may well take the place of “man” in the quest for a human
beyond the constituted horizon of humanism. If there is a relation between
this “you” whom I seek to know, whose gender cannot be determined, whose
nationality cannot be presumed, and who compels me to relinquish violence,
then this mode of address articulates a wish not just for a nonviolent future
for the human, but for a new conception of the human where some manner
of touch other than violence is the precondition of that making.

Notes
1. Jean-Paul Sartre, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington
(New York: Grove, 1963); Frantz Fanon Damnés de la terre (Paris, Éditions
Maspero, 1961). The 1991 Gallimard edition omits the Sartrean preface. And
the new English version, translated by Richard Philcox, includes commentary
by both Jean-Paul Sartre and Homi Bhabha (2004). Citations are to the orig-
inal Grove Press edition except where explicitly noted. All citations to Homi
Bhabha are to the new edition.
2. For a further elaboration of this position, see my Giving an Account of
Oneself (New York: Fordham University Press, 2005).
3. See Abdul JanMohamed, The Death-Bound Subject: Richard Wright’s
Archaelogy of Death (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1995).
4. See Walter Benjamin on the divine violence that obliterates the traces of guilt.
5. Sartre does not name Camus explicitly, but he is clearly referring to, among
others, “Le socialisme des potences” and “Le pari de notre generation” that
appeared in Demain in 1957 and that have been translated by Justin O’Brien
and republished in Albert Camus, Resistance, Rebellion, and Death (New
York: Random House, 1995).
6. Ronald Santoni, Sartre on Violence: Curiously Ambivalent (University Park:
Pennylsvania State University Press, 2003), 67–74.
7. Rey Chow, Primitive Passions: Visuality, Sexuality, Ethnography and Contem-
porary Chinese Cinema (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995).
8. Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1958), 183.
 Violence, Nonviolence 231

9. “The ‘you’ comes before the we, before the plural you and before the they.
Symptomatically, the ‘you’ is a term that is not at home in modern and
contemporary developments of ethics and politics. The ‘you’ is ignored by indi-
vidualistic doctrines, which are too preoccupied with praising the rights of the
I, and the ‘you’ is masked by a Kantian form of ethics that is only capable of
staging an I that addresses itself as a familiar ‘you’. Neither does the ‘you’ find
a home in the schools of thought to which individualism is opposed—these
schools reveal themselves for the most part to be affected by a moralistic vice,
which, in order to avoid falling into the decadence of the I, avoids the conti-
guity of the you, and privileges collective, plural pronouns. Indeed, many
revolutionary movements (which range from traditional communism to the
feminism of sisterhood) seem to share a curious linguistic code based on the
intrinsic morality of pronouns. The we is always positive, the plural you is a
possible ally, the they has the face of an antagonist, the I is unseemly, and the
you is, of course, superfluous.” Adriana Caverero, Relating Narratives: Story-
Telling and Selfhood, trans. Paul Kottman, (London: Routledge, 2000), 90–91.
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 Contributors

Paige Arthur is the Deputy Director of the Research Unit at the Interna-
tional Center for Transitional Justice, an international organization that
assists countries pursuing accountability for past mass atrocity or systemic
human rights abuse. She holds a PhD in History from the University of
California, Berkeley (2004), and is a specialist on the intellectual politics of
European decolonization and of its aftermath. Formerly, she was an editor
of the journal Ethics and International Affairs, published by the Carnegie
Council on Ethics and International Affairs.

Robert Bernasconi has been the Moss Professor of Philosophy at the

University of Memphis since 1998. In addition to publishing over 150
essays, he is the author of The Question of Language in Heidegger’s History
of Being (Humanities, 1985), Heidegger in Question (Humanities, 1993),
and How to Read Sartre (Granta, 2006, and Norton, 2007). He is also the
editor or coeditor of nine volumes, several addressing the subject of race and
racism, including Race (Blackwell, 2001), and with Kristie Dotson, Race,
Miscegenation, and Hybridity (Thoemmes Continuum, 2005).

Judith Butler is the Maxine Elliot Professor in the Departments of Rhetoric

and Comparative Literature at the University of California, Berkeley. She is
the author or co-author of thirteen monographs, including the internation-
ally influential Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity
(Routledge, 1990) and Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of
“Sex” (Routledge, 1993). Most recently she has published Giving an
Account of Oneself (Fordham, 2005) and, with Gayatri Chakravorty
Spivak, Who Sings the Nation-State?: Language, Politics, Belonging (Seagull
2007). These works have established her as one of the leading critical voices
in American academe, particularly in feminist and queer theory, political
philosophy, and ethics.

233
234 Contributors

Christian Delacampagne has taught philosophy and literature at several U.S.

universities, most recently at Johns Hopkins. He is the author of some forty
books. He has also published numerous articles and chapters in edited
volumes on Jean Paul Sartre’s existentialism and political theories, including
most recently “Jean-Paul Sartre” in The Columbia History of Twentieth-
Century French Thought, edited by Lawrence D. Kritzman (Columbia
University Press, 2006) and “Sartre and His Century” in La Règle du jeu in
January 2005, as well as in Les Temps modernes and Cités.

Lewis R. Gordon is the Laura H. Carnell Professor of Philosophy, Religion,

and Judaic Studies; Director of the Institute for the Study of Race and Social
Thought and the Center for Afro-Jewish Studies at Temple University; and
President of the Caribbean Philosophical Association. He has edited or
coedited three books, including most recently Not Only the Master’s Tools
(Paradigm, 2006). He has also written seven monographs, including Bad
Faith and Antiblack Racism (Humanity, 1995), Fanon and the Crisis of
European Man (Routledge, 1995), and most recently An Introduction to
Africana Philosophy (Cambridge University Press, 2008) and with Jane
Anna Gordon, Of Divine Warning: Reading Disaster in the Modern Age
(Paradigm, 2008).

Jonathan Judaken is an Associate Professor of Modern European intellec-

tual and cultural history and Director of the Marcus W. Orr Center for the
Humanities at University of Memphis. Along with twenty articles published
in academic journals, he is the author of Jean-Paul Sartre and the Jewish
Question: Anti-antisemitism and the Politics of the French Intellectual
(Nebraska, “Texts and Contexts” series, 2006) and editor of Naming Race,
Naming Racisms (Routledge, 2008). He is Co-President of the North
American Sartre Society

George Ciccariello-Maher is currently a PhD candidate in political theory at

the University of California, Berkeley. His work has appeared in Journal of
Black Studies, The Commoner, Radical Philosophy Review, Monthly
Review, Listening: Journal of Religion and Culture, and qui parle, as well
as a number of edited volumes, and he has translated books by Enrique
Dussel and Immanuel Wallerstein. He also contributes regularly to Coun-
terpunch and MRZine.

Steve Martinot is a retired lecturer from San Francisco State University,

currently an independent scholar. His books include The Rule of Racial-
ization (Temple, 2002), a critique of the interconnection of class structures
 Contributors 235

and white supremacy in the United States; and Forms in the Abyss:
A Philosophical Bridge between Sartre and Derrida (Temple, 2006). He
also translated and introduced Albert Memmi’s Racism (University of
Minnesota Press).

Mabogo P. More is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy and currently a

Senior Research fellow in the department of philosophy at the University
of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. A leading scholar of existentialism and
African(a) philosophy, Professor More was instrumental in bringing the
work of Jean-Paul Sartre into dialogue with Steve Bantu Biko, one of the
noted luminaries of the anti-Apartheid movement and South African polit-
ical thought. He has published extensively on social and political
philosophy in journals such as Southern African Journal of Philosophy,
African Journal of Political Science, Theoria, Dialogue and Universalism,
Alternation, as well as contributing chapters to various books.

Richard H. Watts is Associate Professor of French and Executive Director of

the Center for International Studies at Tulane University. Along with
numerous articles on postcolonial discourses in the francophone world, he is
the author of Packaging Post/Coloniality: The Manufacture of Literary
Identities in the Francophone World (Lexington, 2004).
This page intentionally left blank.
 Index

Action Française, 25, 47 Being and Nothingness, 4, 8, 25–27, 31,

Adorno, Theodor, 101 38, 117, 130, 134–135, 137, 144,
affirmative action, 8, 11, 60, 74, 116 158, 163, 165–166, 177
alienation, 2, 29, 38, 50, 70, 140, 163, “Being Jewish,” 119–120
170, 184, 190 Bergson, Henri, 3
Alleg, Henri, 37 Bernasconi, Robert, 141–142
allographic, 15, 194, 201, 203–204, 207 Bhabba, Homi, 198, 217–218, 221, 223
Anthologie de la nouvelle poésie nègre bidonville, 82–83, 84–85
et malgache de langue française, 8, Biko, Steve, 15, 163, 170, 173–187
16–17, 31, 63, 195, 197, 200–201 Birt, Robert, 163
anti-Americanism, 55 Black Consciousness Movement, 4, 15,
Antisemite and Jew, 1, 8, 25, 27–28, 32, 29, 31–32, 55, 61, 63, 87, 88, 116,
33, 35, 40, 55, 63, 64, 88, 101–102, 124, 137, 142, 159, 163, 164, 173,
182, 184, 188, 194–201, 206
105, 109, 113, 116, 118, 120, 121,
“Black Orpheus,” 33, 75, 140, 148, 161,
159, 163, 199, 200, 208
162, 164, 165, 193, 228–229
antisemitism, 2, 4, 6, 9, 10, 12, 13, 15,
Black Skin, White Masks, 160–161,
24–29, 30, 31, 34, 38–39, 45, 55, 64,
167
101–109, 113–120, 157, 159, 173,
blues, 25, 107
175, 199, 234
Blum, Léon, 88, 95, 193
apartheid, 8, 15, 43–45, 173–187 Bourdieu, Pierre, 205
Arendt, Hannah, 105–106, 230 Britton, Celia, 3
Aristotle, 174
Aron, Raymond, 3, 5, 17, 19, 103, 106 Cahiers pour une morale. See Note-
Aronson, Ronald, 176, 181, 188–189 books for an Ethics
authenticity, 35, 40, 174 Cartier-Bresson, Henri, 4
Césaire, Aimé, 1, 4, 14, 19, 129–130,
bad faith, 6, 9, 25–30, 37, 57, 59, 60, 144–149, 162, 165, 193, 197–198,
63, 65, 69, 73, 141–142, 157–159, 207
163–167, 175–176, 178, 180, Chamoiseau, Patrick, 194–195,
183–184, 186 203–204
Beauvoir, Simone de,2, 3, 18, 162, 168, “Childhood of a Leader,” 3–4, 19, 25,
169, 207 27, 47

237
238 Index

civil rights, 10, 55, 56, 58, 72, 74, 76 ethnocentrism, 116
colonialism, 1, 2, 4, 5, 8, 10, 13, 23–24, “Être juif.” See “Being Jewish”
29, 31, 33–34, 38, 40–42, 61, 63, “Existentialism is a Humanism,” 6, 29,
77–92, 122, 129–149, 160, 173, 175, 114
177–178, 182–184, 196–197, 201,
213, 215, 216–219, 222, 224 Family Idiot, The, 159
Colonialism and Neocolonialism, 1, 8, Fanon, Frantz, 1,5, 7, 8, 12, 14, 15, 16,
182 33, 39-40, 42, 64, 75, 113, 120, 126,
“Colonialism is a System,” 5, 35–36, 52, 129–130, 134–144, 147–149,
83, 182 160–166, 177, 185, 199, 210–202,
Colonizer and the Colonized, The, 5, 7, 211-230.
35, 36, 113, 141, 178, 216 Finkielkraut, Alain, 14, 115–116,
colorblindness, 8, 11, 58, 74, 116, 124, 118–119, 200
163 Flynn, Thomas, 82
Congo, 6, 9, 41, 45 Foucault, Michel, 14, 83, 129–149,
consciousness, 3, 7, 8, 24, 26, 30, 32, 164–165
62, 63, 65, 67, 85, 87, 117, 120, 135, “France and a Matter of Racism.” See
137, 159, 163, 166, 174, 175, 187, “The New Racism”
227, 229 Franco-Algerian War,5, 23, 35, 36, 38,
Corbin, Henri, 202, 204 39, 77, 80, 81, 83, 84, 86, 87, 148,
Critique of Dialectical reason, 7–9, 38, 153, 157, 160, 175, 178, 180
61, 83, 120, 136, 141–142, 160 Francophone literature, 2, 11, 15, 17,
32, 193–206
Damas, Léon-Gotran, 162, 193, 195 freedom, 4, 6, 7, 9, 12, 14, 25–29,
Davis, Angela, 15, 163 34–35, 38, 42, 46, 65, 75, 82, 88–89,
“De l’evasion.” See “On Escape” 91–92, 102–103, 114–118, 124–125,
dehumanization, 9, 10, 12, 16, 160, 130–131, 137, 157–158, 160–163,
213, 230 173–177, 187, 217, 228
Derrida, Jacques, 171, 182 “From One China to Another,” 34
dialectic, 7–9, 15, 25, 29, 33, 35, 38, 61, Front National, 79, 81, 93
64, 66, 87, 90, 101, 117, 122, 123,
126, 130, 136–139, 141–142, Gauche Proletarienne, 79, 83, 86
159–160, 162, 165, 169, 199–200, gauchiste, 6, 13, 78–80, 83–86, 89–90
213, 216, 221, 223 gaze, 1, 8, 9, 12, 14, 25–27, 29–30, 35,
dialectical history, 9, 38 40, 64, 120–121, 129, 134–140,
Diawara, Manthia, 164 142–144, 149–197
Die Schuldfrage. See Question of Genette, Gérard, 194
German Guilt, The Glissant, Edouard, 15, 193–209
Diop, Alioune, 4 globalization, 6, 8, 23–24, 42, 45, 86,
discrimination, 1, 9, 15, 23, 36, 44, 58, 92, 217
60, 74, 79, 95, 100, 105, 116, 124 Goldberg, David Theo, 163
Du Bois, W. E. B., 11, 32, 51, 55, 75, Gordon, Lewis, 186–187
167 groups-in-fusion, 9, 163

Emotions, The, 175 Halimi, Gisèle, 86–87

Enlightenment, 8, 14, 28, 101, 106, 113, Hardy, Paul, 196
115–116, 118, 123, 133 Haymes, Stephen, 164
essentialism, 9, 33–34, 137, 148, 164 Hazoumé, Paul, 196
 Index 239

Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 31, 50, Le Bris, Michel, 77, 86, 88–89
61, 66, 113, 136, 138, 143, 180, 199, Le Dantec, Jean-Pierre, 77, 86, 88, 90
200, 215 Les damnées de la terre. See Wretched
Heidegger, Martin, 3, 18, 132, 171, 175 of the Earth, The
Henry, Paget, 163 “Les Pays capitalistes et leurs colonies
Hollier, Denis, 15, 199–200 intérieures,” 44
Horkheimer, Max, 101 Les Temps modernes, 5
humanism, 6, 12, 14, 16, 20, 28–29, 34, Levinas, Emmanuel, 3, 14, 25, 113–127,
87, 116, 129–149, 164, 178, 211, 171
217, 218, 219, 222, 224, 228, 230 Lévy, Benny, 115
Hurricane Katrina, 8, 44, 206 Lévy, Bernard-Henri, 173
Husserl, Edmund, 3, 18, 125 liberalism, 13, 36, 118–119, 163, 174,
187, 216
immigration, 2, 6, 8, 13, 15, 24, 44, liberation, 5, 6, 15, 40, 42, 78, 80, 86,
79–85, 90–92 89, 92, 118, 148–149, 157, 163, 164,
institutionalized oppression, 29–30 167, 183–187
intellectuals, 4, 5, 10, 14, 15, 75, 79, 82, Locke, John, 113
83, 89, 90, 101, 129, 131–132, 135, Lumumba, Patrice, 8, 39–42, 201
137, 139, 141–149
interior colonialism, 6, 43–44, 80, 86, 93 Mamdani, Mahmoud, 183, 185
Isaac, Jules, 104–108 Manganyi, Noel, 163, 173, 187
Martin, Henri, 5
J’Accuse, 78 Marxism, 2, 6–7, 9, 14, 35, 38, 40, 82,
Jaspers, Karl, 10, 37, 101, 174, 89, 91, 102, 165, 189, 223
176–177, 179, 181, 188 Mazrui, Ali, 186
Jay, Martin, 38, 135 Mbeki, Thabo, 45, 186
jazz, 15, 160, 167 Memmi, Albert, 1, 5, 7, 8, 35–36, 43,
Jeanson, Francis, 5, 153, 161 52, 113, 141, 152, 178, 187, 189,
Jews, 9, 17, 27–28, 31–32, 43, 88, 216, 235
103–105, 107, 110, 117–118, metastability, 162, 166
120–121, 123–124, 136, 159–160, Minute, 77–84, 91
180, 189, 199 Myrdal, Gunnar, 30, 50
Jim Crow, 10, 55, 60, 72
Jones, William, 162–163 Nausea, 3, 18–19, 160
Judaism, 27–28, 64, 102–106, 109, 115, Nazi, 3–4, 10, 38, 55, 113, 119, 146, 174
117–120 Negritude, 4, 8, 12, 15, 19, 31–33, 38,
75, 116, 137, 148, 151, 161–162,
Kandé, Sylvie, 203, 204 194–204
Kant, Emmanuel, 3, 113, 231 Neocolonialism, 8, 41, 42, 82
“New Racism, The,” 20, 23, 60, 83
“L’Enfance d’un chef.” See “Childhood
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 117, 143, 161,
of a Leader”
167, 171, 218
L’être et le néant. See Being and Noth- Notebooks for an Ethics, 29, 30, 50,
ingness 55, 58, 159
La Cause du peuple, 77–78, 82, 86 Nuremberg, 55, 106, 178
La Putain respecteuse. See The
Respectful Prostitute “On Escape,” 119
Lamming, George, 164 Ordre Nouveau, 79
Lazare, Bernard, 104 Organisation Armée Secrète, 5, 157
240 Index

paratextual, 196–197, 201, 203–204, socialism, 13, 75, 87, 90, 95, 118, 187,
206 230
Parkes, James, 104 sociogeny, 140–141, 148, 165
Parti Communiste Français, 4 South Africa, 8, 10, 15, 43, 45, 53, 161,
Parti Socialiste, 80, 85, 90 163, 173–187
Poliakov, Léon, 106–107 stereotype, 9, 11, 12, 33–34, 48, 115
“Political Thought of Patrice structuralism, 1, 9, 17, 164
Lumumba, The,” 39, 40–42 Suleiman, Susan, 199–200
Poster, Mark, 131–134
poststructuralism. See structuralism torture, 5, 8, 10–11, 36–37, 42, 59,
72–74, 145, 175, 180, 182, 189, 217
practico-inert, 9, 38–39, 136, 141
totalization, 14, 38, 129–134, 137, 139,
praxis, 1, 9, 38, 39, 49, 68, 122, 141
140–146
“Preface” to Wretched of the Earth, 5,
Tout, 78
15, 39, 40, 138, 139, 142, 161, 177,
transcendence, 3, 26, 31, 122, 135,
211–230
184–5
prejudice, 2, 11, 41, 50, 52, 63, 103, 139
Transcendence of the Ego, The, 3
Présence Africaine, 4, 29, 160
Truth and Reconciliation Commission,
8, 15, 181–185
Question of German Guilt, The, 37,
Turner, Richard, 173
101, 174, 188
Question, The, 37 Union française, 196
United States, 29, 30, 34, 38, 44, 45, 47,
“Reflections on the Philosophy of
55, 62, 71–73, 99, 101, 102, 105,
Hitlerism,” 118–119
108, 157, 160, 161
regionalism, 13, 79, 86, 89, 91
Respectful Prostitute, The, 12, 13, 29, Verwoerd, Wilhelm, 179, 183–184
55–76 Vichy, 4, 19, 100, 109
responsibility, 6, 8–10, 14–15, 25, violence, 9, 11–12, 16, 23, 26, 30,
27–29, 37, 39, 48, 78, 110, 114, 122, 36–42, 45, 56, 62, 67, 68–73, 76, 89,
124, 150, 162, 167, 174, 186 94, 122, 136, 138–139, 141–142,
riots, November 2005, 8, 23–24 145, 158, 160, 176, 183, 187, 189,
211–230
Santoni, Ronald, 175, 224
Saussure, Léopold de, 115 white supremacy, 12, 33, 55, 56, 59, 61,
Scharfman, Ronnie, 197, 199 63, 66, 67, 73, 75, 162, 163
Search for a Method, 7 whiteness, 13, 32, 56–73, 162, 164,
Senghor, Léopold, 1, 4, 7, 8, 31, 50, 75, 189, 197
126, 137, 148, 162, 193, 195–197, Wretched of the Earth, The, 5, 12, 15,
201–202, 207 39–40, 113, 138–139, 160, 161, 162,
seriality, 9, 38, 65, 68–70, 121–122, 177, 202, 211–229
141, 163 Wright, Richard, 1, 51, 142, 161–162,
Sharp, Granville, 113 169–170
Simon, Marcel, 104, 107
singular universal, 80, 87, 92 Yacine, Kateb, 202
situation, 7, 9, 14, 25, 26–27, 29, 31, Yancy, George, 164
35–36, 42, 65, 117, 130–134,
137–139, 140, 143–144, 174, 177, Zack, Naomi, 164
199 Zizek, Slavoj, 44
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