Yasmina Khadra: ‘Algeria could have been a paradise for all’

In 1930, France celebrated the 100th anniversary of the annexation of Algeria, claiming it as one of its own territories after a century of bloodshed on a huge scale, writing one of the most horrific chapters in colonial history in blood and ashes. But even if they had been wiped out on the battlefield, the Algerian people refused to fade away. They needed to rediscover a way of being visible that would remind their conquerors that they were still there. On paintings and in photographs, the Algerian was presented in rags; virtually part of a landscape as pitiful as it was picturesque. It couldn’t be further from the image of the intrepid warrior, majestic on his horse, his gun held aloft and his burnous catching the wind like a banner.

First there was football. Teams of Muslim players looked forward to a time when they could take on their invaders, and their skills, dribbles and tackles light up the stands. But it was boxing, more than anything, that thrilled the Algerians. If, in football stadiums, the stands kept the different communities apart, the ring almost sealed them in; Algerians and Europeans, finally side by side, stuck together in those overheated rooms.

This is why I wanted to write the story of my fictional, exceptional boxer Turambo, who is an incarnation of all the Arab-Berber champions who bought pride to the region after the humiliating defeats of the invasions. Unaware of it themselves, the boxers were showing the Algerian people that they could still fight the good fight, and that even if the French government was sovereign, it was neither invincible, nor invulnerable.

The Angels Die was, for me, an opportunity to revisit a time that I feel has been unjustly ignored by writers and historians as a decisive moment for the destiny of Algeria. From the 1930s onwards, Algerian nationalism was beginning to reap the fruit of its labours. But while 8 May 1945 is celebrated as a day of freedom in Europe, it is a day of mourning for my people, as VE Day also marked the start of a bloody repression of the Algerian people by the French army: it is estimated that as many as 45,000 people died in the Sétif and Guelma massacre, and the shelling of the town of Kherrata (European estimates sit between 15,000-20,000).

I wrote this novel to pay tribute to a country that could have been a paradise for all, if everyone had known how to share. Of all of my novels, The Angels Die has probably moved me the most. It is still my favourite, perhaps because, like me, it chases after love in a hostile world.

Extract

I owe my nickname to the shopkeeper in Graba.

The first time he saw me enter his lair, he looked me up and down, shocked by the state I was in and the way I smelt, and asked me if I came from the earth or the night. I was in bad shape, half dead from diarrhoea and exhaustion as a result of a long forced march across scrubland.

‘I’m from Turambo, sir.’

The shopkeeper smacked his lips, which were as thick as a buffalo frog’s. The name of my village meant nothing to him.

‘Turambo? Which side of hell is that on?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I need half a douro’s worth of yeast and I’m in a hurry.’

The shopkeeper turned to his half-empty shelves and, holding his chin between his thumb and index finger, repeated, ‘Turambo? Turambo? Never heard of it.’

From that day on, whenever I passed his shop, he’d cry out, ‘Hey, Turambo! Which side of hell is your village on?’ His voice carried such a long way that gradually everyone started calling me Turambo.

My village had been wiped off the map by a landslide a week earlier. It was like the end of the world. Wild lightning flashes streaked the darkness, and the thunder seemed to be trying to smash the mountains to pieces. You couldn’t tell men from animals anymore; they were all tearing in every direction, screaming like creatures possessed. In a few hours, the torrents of rain had swept away our hovels, our goats and donkeys, our cries and prayers, and all our landmarks. By morning, apart from the survivors shivering on the mud covered rocks, nothing remained of the village. My father had vanished into thin air.

More about the book

The book – set in Oran in the 1920s and 1930s – unveils a harsh picture of colonial life in Algeria: cacophonous streets, squalor, violence and destitution alongside luxury, with the Arabs dismissed as little better than animals by their European overlords. You feel a pang for the boy when an official points out, with condescending amusement, that the village he’s named after was not Turambo, but Arthur-Rimbaud, mispronounced by the illiterate peasants. There are ominous hints here of the hatred that would later explode into the bloody war of independence. – Lee Langley, the Spectator

Buy the book

The Angels Die by Yasmina Khadra, translated by Howard Curtis, is out now, published by Gallic Books for £8.99. It is available from the Guardian bookshop for £7.37.