New African Diasporas (Global Diasporas)

NEW AFRICAN DIASPORAS

The extensive literature relating to the African diaspora has tended to concentrate on the descendants of those who left Africa as part of the slave trade to North America. This important new book gathers together work on more recent waves of African migration from some of the most exciting thinkers on the contemporary diaspora. Concentrating particularly on the last twenty years, the contributions look to the United States and beyond, to diaspora settlements in the UK and Northern Europe too. New African Diasporas looks at a range of different types of diaspora – legal and illegal, professional and low-skilled, asylum seekers and economic migrants – and includes chapters on diasporic communities originating in Côte d’Ivoire, Democratic Republic of Congo, Eritrea, Ghana, Senegal and Somalia. It also examines often neglected differences based on gender, class and generation in the process. This book will be essential reading for anyone with an interest in the African diaspora, and provides the most wide-ranging picture of the new African diaspora yet. Khalid Koser is Lecturer in Human Geography at University College London.

G LO BA L D I A S P O R A S Series Editor: Robin Cohen

The assumption that minorities and migrants will demonstrate an exclusive loyalty to the nation-state is now questionable. Scholars of nationalism, international migration and ethnic relations need new conceptual maps and fresh case studies to understand the growth of complex transnational identities. The old idea of ‘diaspora’ may provide this framework. Though often conceived in terms of a catastrophic dispersion, widening the notion of diaspora to include trade, imperial labour and cultural diasporas can provide a more nuanced understanding of the often positive relationships between migrants’ homelands and their places of work and settlement. This book forms part of an ambitious and interlinked series of volumes trying to capture the new relationships between home and abroad. Historians, political scientists, sociologists and anthropologists from a number of countries have collaborated on this forward-looking project. The series includes two books which provide the defining, comparative and synoptic aspects of diasporas. Further titles focus on particular communities, both traditionally recognized diasporas and those newer claimants who define their collective experiences and aspirations in terms of diasporic identity. This series is associated with the Transnational Communities Programme at the University of Oxford funded by the UK’s Economic and Social Research Council.

NEW AFRICAN D I A S P OR A S

Edited by Khalid Koser

First published 2003 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004. Selection and editorial matter © 2003 Khalid Koser; individual chapters, the authors All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data New African diasporas / edited by Khalid Koser. p. cm. — (Global diasporas) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. African diaspora. I. Koser, Khalid. II. Global diasporas (Routledge (Firm)) DT16.5 .N49 2003 304.8′0967—dc21 2002015086 ISBN 0-203-41473-X Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-34145-7 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0–415–30949–2 (Print Edition)

CONTENTS

Notes on contributors Preface

vii ix

DONALD CARTER

Acknowledgements 1

xx

New African Diasporas: An Introduction

1

KHALID KOSER

2

La Nouvelle Vague? Recent Francophone African Settlement in London

17

DAVID STYAN

3

A Refugee Diaspora: When the Somali Go West

37

MARC-ANTOINE PÉROUSE DE MONTCLOS

4

Scattered Belongings: Reconfiguring the ‘African’ in the English-African Diaspora

56

JAYNE O. IFEKWUNIGWE

5

Marketing Afrocentricity: West African Trade Networks in North America

71

PAUL STOLLER

6

More than a Trade Diaspora: Senegalese Transnational Experiences in Emilia-Romagna (Italy) BRUNO RICCIO

v

95

CONTENTS

7

Mobilizing New African Diasporas: An Eritrean Case Study

111

KHALID KOSER

8

Paradoxical Expressions of a Return to the Homeland: Music and Literature among the Congolese (Zairean) Diaspora

124

DÉSIRÉ KAZADI WA KABWE AND AURELIA SEGATTI

9

‘Efie’ or the Meanings of ‘Home’ among Female and Male Ghanaian Migrants in Toronto, Canada and Returned Migrants to Ghana

140

TAKYIWAA MANUH

Index

160

vi

CONTRIBUTORS

Donald Carter is Assistant Professor of Anthropology at Johns Hopkins University. He is author of States of Grace: Senegalese in Italy and the New European Immigration (University of Minnesota Press, 1997). He is currently working on a book entitled Navigating Diaspora, which deals with the increasing diversity of contemporary Europe. Jayne O. Ifekwunigwe is Senior Lecturer in Anthropology and Sociology at the University of East London. Among her most recent publications is Scattered Belongings: Cultural Paradoxes of ‘Race’, Nation and Gender (Routledge, 1999). At the moment, she is editing a ‘Mixed Race’ Reader, which will be published by Routledge. In addition, she is analysing the findings of ongoing visual and ethnographic research on cultural and heritage tourism in Cape Town, South Africa. Désiré Kazadi Wa Kabwe first received a Master’s Degree in French linguistics from the Institut Supérieur Pédagogique of Mbanza-Ngungu (ex-Zaire). He then emigrated to South Africa where he worked for three years as a student assistant in the French Department of the Rand Afrikaans University ( Johannesburg). There he com-pleted a Master’s Degree on the Congolese novel under the supervision of Professor Denise Godwin. He is currently a PhD candidate at the Sorbonne University (Paris) under the supervision of Professor Jacques Chevrier. His research work deals with contemporary Congolese writing and youth. Khalid Koser is Lecturer in Human Geography at University College London. He is co-editor of The New Migration in Europe: Social Constructions and Social Realities (Macmillan, 1998), The End of the Refugee Cycle? Refugee Repatriation and Reconstruction (Berghahn, 1999), and New Approaches to Migration? Transnational Communities and the Transformation of Home (Routledge, 2001). vii

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Takyiwaa Manuh is Associate Professor at the Institute of African Studies at the University of Ghana, Legon. Her research interests are in law, gender, the state, migration and development in Africa. Her chapter in this volume is based on research carried out for her PhD dissertation on Ghanaians in Toronto and returned migrants to Ghana. Marc-Antoine Pérouse de Montclos has a Doctorate in Political Science from the Institut d’Études Politiques de Paris (IEP) and is now a researcher with the Institut de Recherche pour le Développement (IRD). He lived for several years in Nigeria, South Africa and Kenya, and has worked mainly on armed conflicts and forced migration in English-speaking sub-Saharan Africa. He is currently posted at the Centre Français sur la Population et le Développement (CEPED) Bruno Riccio received his DPhil in Social Anthropology from the University of Sussex, UK, in 2000. His doctoral research was on Senegalese transnational migrants and the Italian experience of immigration. A number of papers based on this project have already been published in books and journals, including Modern Italy, Afriche e Orienti, The Anthropological Journal of European Cultures and The Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, and further publications are in active preparation. He is currently Research Fellow in Cultural Anthropology at the University of Bologna, Italy. Aurelia Segatti holds a Master’s Degree in African Studies from the Centre of African Studies, Bordeaux (France). She is currently completing a PhD thesis on South African immigration policy in the 1990s. She is also a lecturer in English for Science at the Faculty of Science and Technology, University of Reunion Island. Paul Stoller is Professor of Anthropology at West Chester University of Pennsylvania. The author of many books and essays on African religion and the African diaspora, his most recent books include Jaguar: A Story of Africans in America (University of Chicago Press, 1999), Embodying Colonial Memories (Routledge, 1995) and Money Has No Smell: The Africanization of New York City (University of Chicago Press, 2002). He is currently conducting ethnographic research among West African art traders in New York City. David Styan teaches in the School of Politics and Sociology, Birkbeck College, University of London. He has written extensively on French foreign policy and has a long-standing interest in Francophone Africa.

viii

PREFACE Donald Carter

Our view of the passage of time influences the value we attach to past events far more than is the case for the Dinka, whose points of reference are not years counted serially, but the events themselves. In the example of the man who called his child ‘Khartoum’ it is Khartoum which is regarded as an agent, the subject which acts, and not as with us the remembering mind which recalls a place. The man is the object acted upon. Godfrey Leinhardt, Divinity and Experience: The Religion of the Dinka (1961: 150)

If we were to configure the architecture of contemporary anthropology the resulting structure might reveal the explorations of experience, material culture and space and time to be essential features of its fragile identity. One of the pioneering figures of this world was no doubt Godfrey Lienhardt who mapped the meanings of Dinka cosmology in his classic Divinity and Experience (1961). In the heart of the work Lienhardt considers memory, experience and the significance of naming a child ‘Khartoum’, the son of a man once imprisoned in the city. Remembering Khartoum does not just entail the acknowledgment of the enduring traces of place on both a present and future life. It also constitutes an ‘act of exorcism’, ensuring against potential harm of any kind. For the many people of the Southern Sudan, Khartoum has not only symbolized a seat of the national political power but also a site of ethnic discrimination, and religious and cultural intolerance. Indeed, as the legacy of residence in a place may have lasting significance across the generations, this type of experience can be integral to diasporas. Lienhardt introduced a generation of anthropologists to the complexity of experience and the embodiment of aspects of the profane as well as the unseen world in everyday life. As we consider the nature of new African ix

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diasporas we must perhaps acknowledge the capriciousness of the work of historicity and the precarious state of those figured by diasporas at times, through the disfigurement of their dispersal and the provisional status of all cultural identity. I think it is this kind of presence and contingency that we attempt to capture with such words as diaspora, dwelling, travelling and exile, the lineaments of profound change expanding outward like the spokes of a wheel in the real time of daily practice and future lives. We make the vehicle of displacement the trope that stands in for the experience of diaspora or what we might even call the culture of diaspora. As in Dinka remembering Khartoum, we tend to focus on an event – often departure – and the prolonged state of arrival and displacement of the migrant, the refugee or the exile. I would like to suggest that diaspora is not merely a form of transportation – a way of going from here to there – but rather a way of being here or there and all the points in between. What I have in mind is what Clifford has referred to as dwelling in travel. Diaspora is a kind of passage, yet a passage that encompasses the possibility of never arriving. Of drifting endless on the betwixt and between of the world’s boundaries. Rather than seeking ‘assimilation’ as a goal, diaspora is a way of being ‘other’ among the established, of keeping alive the drama of the voyage of ‘otherness’ in worlds that seek sameness and homogeneity. As I see it, the power of remembering Khartoum is an acknowledgement of entering a new state of being, of the act of the transformative in the mundane world. Perhaps we might say that it is the act of embracing the ambiguities of becoming and belonging. The trauma and trace of loss may not always be the defining aspects of a diasporic identity. What Clifford calls ‘collective histories of displacement and violent loss’ (Clifford 1997: 250) are not the only articulations of identity possible, but rather one of myriad possible positions that may be occupied. Diasporic cultural forms may have a future in spite of ‘homecomings’ real or imagined, as these forms – like the ‘act of exorcism’ of naming of the Dinka – take on a kind of autonomy from the inaugural event that gave them life. It is in these futures, in the daily living of diaspora, that we must come to explore the changing world or worlds of new African diasporas. There are a number of ideas that attempt to draw together new African diasporas by looking backwards to an ideal African homeland and to sets of Afro-centric values that stream from this common origin (Palmer 1998). Beneath the pan-African imagined global networks, however, run fluid discursive structures that blur conventional and takenfor-granted classificatory practices with emergent nodes of cultural identity that we have yet to imagine. Explorations of pan-African diasporic consciousness must therefore be disambiguated from the essential x

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markings of race, place and temporal anchoring (see Ifekwunigwe, this volume). There is no trans-historical box large enough to contain such disparate and heterogeneous processes, rather linkages must be accounted for with greater care and specificity. As Jayne Ifekwunigwe points out, the ‘historical and contemporary narratives of continental Africa and its diaspora(s) . . . have always been intertwined’, such that the interplay of racial, gender and class ideologies with the discursive features of divergent nation-state(s) forms the historically specific surfaces that are an integral part of these lives in diaspora. It is to these voices that we must increasingly turn to understand the ‘paradox of belonging’, as these forms of belonging, cutting across diverse ethnic, cultural, racial and gendered boundaries, reveal lived experiences that do not succumb to classical binary markers like Black/White, or the many national identifiers from which diaspora identity comes to be excluded. There is a danger of viewing these social forms merely in relation to a local racial currency and ideal of origin, and thereby reducing the scope and dimension of new African diasporas. Networks that in part constitute but also sustain diasporas (ethnicity, gender, clan, kinship, religious and or affiliation) are not transnational linkages fixed in place for all time, but rather structures that come to be essentially ‘reworked’ in practices varying from one place to another (see Riccio and Koser in this volume). Popular music introduces young Congolese to Parisian life long before they board the ’plane to see the city for themselves. The links between a homeland and the places and people in diaspora is only a cell phone call, an email or a cable away. People often send letters or cassettes that are hand delivered from one part of the world to the diaspora in another.1 No region or place cries out to be identified definitively with one group or another. West African groups who carry different passports may claim solidarity on the basis of a common religious affiliation, ethnicity or occupation. And yet groups sharing a common legacy to a colonial language may claim allegiance to a local language and thus diminish the European tie. Old classificatory systems of African populations such as Francophone and Anglophone, as David Styan points out in this volume, do not resonate with a contemporary world in which other languages may come first. Nor do such designations account for national, regional and religious affiliation that may influence language use in various contexts. Senegalese from rural areas, primarily ethnic Wolof, often insist on speaking an ‘African language’ and take great pride in the purity of their Wolof, while their counterparts – educated youth from urban centres – feel more at home in French (Carter 1997). Furthermore, ethnic Wolof will often identify as ‘Senegalese’ rather than claim the national identities that their passports afford them, xi

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in effect blurring the boundaries of nation, ethnicity and language by invoking the solidarity implicit in diaspora. Senegalese in Italy often speak in Italian when the topic of work comes up, slipping completely into Wolof when watching a video from home and to an interplay of Wolof and French when speaking to a relative in France or Senegal. While a trans-ethnic national language in Senegal, Wolof in diaspora can act as a marker of ethnicity or of the non-European. If, as Rey Chow suggests, modernity is characterized by pressing demands for clarity and demarcation of boundaries, then our time may be indexed by a kind of ‘boundary dissolving’. Yet this ‘dissolving’ seems a contradictory dynamic that often moves against the grain of the local while engendering a greater heterogeneity in the global. And yet favouring dissolution (if that is what is happening) is not the same for all. It may come to be experienced differently in ‘other cultures’. ‘Modernism is for these other cultures’, writes Chow, ‘always a displaced phenomenon, the sign of an alien imprint on indigenous traditions’ (Chow 1993: 56). And yet the line between the West and the rest is increasingly unreliable since, in practice and for the quotidian routine regimes of most lives, no such distinctions exist. African diasporas emerge not only in sites where relationships have been established through colonial ties but in new contexts, often following the circuitous pathways of NGOs, religious organizations, political affiliations, transnational refugee networks and familial reunification. It is the diaspora, according to Paul Gilroy, that sets up an ‘alternative to the stern discipline of primordial kinship and rooted belonging’, and set free such determinations of identity that, linked to territory, produce a taken-for-granted chain leading from place to consciousness (Gilroy 2000: 123). Shortly after I arrived in Rome, en route to Turin for my fieldwork, I went to the St Egidio centre in Trastevere. I was directed to the centre by a friend of a friend before I even had time properly to unpack my bags or recover from the journey. After my long absence from Rome I looked forward to wandering through the twisting streets of Trastevere, hugging close to the walls to avoid the intermittent motorists and scooters. In recent years the Roman heart of Trastevere had become a home to travellers, migrants and refugees from many parts of the globe. More a kind of turnstile than a quarter, especially for those longing to go elsewhere, a rest stop for those just wanting to stay somewhere and a refuge for those not wanted anywhere. Wandering the streets of Trastevere, the director pointed out the changes that over the years had transformed the sleepy quarter: the wellappointed cars, the new shops and the not so newly acquired taste for the xii

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good life of the consumer world. Becoming a world economic power had been beyond the dreams of most Italians a short time ago, now they were living in an undreamed of reality. As we walked into the hall where volunteers were serving dinner he pointed out that many Nuer and Dinka were frequent visitors to the centre’s meal and language programmes. Standing by the wall, waiting for the dining room to fill up, were two young men, one Nuer the other Dinka, who joked with the director that they were all still there (in the centre and even in Italy).2 I knew then that this was not going to be an easy field experience, that the world of the anthropological imagination was meeting, full scale, the world of a changing global, often volatile and certainly unexpected reality. Notions of divinity and power cast by the generation of Godfrey Leinhardt and Evans-Pritchard were impossible to reconcile with the waiting room of a lay Catholic Trastevere centre, a place accustomed to serving the homeless and less fortunate of Rome.3 The Nuer and Dinka agro-pastorialist, Nilotic cultural and linguistic groups, who subsist on a mixed economy of animal husbandry and cultivation, have been a standard feature of virtually every basic anthropological text. And many anthropologists have spent much of their academic lives re-examining and often recapitulating the wisdom imparted by founding figures like Leinhardt and Evans-Pritchard in classrooms, professional journals and documentary film (Holtzman 2000). Jon Holtzman suggests that the Nuer may be the most important case study in the history of anthropology, and are certainly one of the most well known. In this manner already pre-figured in a collective encounter with ‘other cultures’, it is perhaps not so surprising that the Nuer and the closely related Dinka are now an integral part of a new African diaspora. The southern Sudan by the late 1980s was the site of a protracted civil conflict, bombed by the government because of the concentration of rebel activity in the region. The Nuer and other southerners saw their home become a battlefield, their fields burned, their herds looted to feed the rebel forces and many of their number jailed by the government in Khartoum as suspected rebels or rebel sympathizers (Holtzman 2000). The romantic vision of the remote pastoral Nilotic people, represented on the cover of Evans Pritchard’s The Nuer (1940) with a photograph showing Nuer harpoon-fishing from a canoe on the Sobat river, was perhaps being shattered forever. It was being replaced by the visage of refugee camps, and a world in motion, haemorrhaging slowly to neighbouring countries. The photograph depicts in the foreground young Nuer on the waterways in a small craft, one intent on harpooning his prey, and behind them a vast expanse fading into the horizon line. Fishing is part of the delicate balance of a mixed economy in which there is still xiii

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little room for error, and fish form an ‘indispensable article of food’ in a diet that influences the group’s seasonal movements in harmony with the natural world. This world, bounded only by the local ecology, and the marking of time by shifting subsistence agriculture, herding and fishing, comes full circle with the entrance of southerners into the world of the refugee and the subsequent loss of livelihood, land and cattle.4 Evans-Pritchard envisioned the world of the Nuer to be in a delicate ‘equilibrium’ with nature – ‘Man holds his own in the struggle but does not advance’ (Evans-Pritchard 1940: 92). Yet even in this semi-mythic world of the Nuer, in the distant beginnings of anthropological wanderings, this notion of bounded cultural realms was already beginning to break apart. Today, diaspora Nuer and Dinka face many of the problems of transition and cultural dislocations that other groups confront, including the Eritrean and Somali communities described in this volume: a disasporic experience bounded if at all by a kind of new global ecology at times beyond the reaches of the cultural account. The Nuer and the Dinka are just as much part of a new African diaspora as are the Senegalese, Eritreans and Somalis with whom I would later work in Turin. For all of them, the transition from refugee camps to centres in Italy or their final destination in the United States or elsewhere was difficult. Some have lived for times in refugee camps in a number of countries, many have walked for hundreds of miles in order to reach these camps, often facing the resentment of local populations fed up with the flow of outsiders and insensitive to their pasts. Travelling without documents, the migrants not having attainted the official status of the refugee, they faced periods of questioning, detention and even imprisonment by local authorities. Loss of immediate families, friends and relatives further complicate this passage from homeland to diaspora. Nowhere is this interplay of the stereotype more apparent than in what I will call the historic tropics of diaspora, that play of historical trope and cultural field intertwined in the notion of passage of the sociological figures of diaspora into a realm in which they are unknown (White 1978). Detached from their historical moorings, diasporas may drift among the wreckage of an historical continuum, at times in the background, at others to the fore, but always a narrative form in a global economy of images of displacement and displacing agents knowing or unknown (Jameson 1998). It is in the instances of intolerance that we are drawn to the jagged edges of ‘othering’. As its structure crashes towards act of violence, we are compelled ourselves to depart on an intellectual journey of sorts in contemplation of this process. There has been a great deal of discussion of diaspora that employs the trope of the voyage or the passage from one state or place to another. xiv

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So much so, that dispossession, exile and displacement have become the watchwords for the notion of diaspora. Terms such as hybridity, transnational, border and travel also play a part in the identification of diasporic themes (Clifford 1997: 302–6). The contemplation of diaspora as a residence in alterity, I suggest, has only really been considered at times of trauma. I never knew my boat, or the voyage of now distant generations, and yet I consider myself as part of a diaspora. Some would suggest that this distant trauma, the unintentional seaward movement of which I am a descendant, has left in its wake a ‘structure of feeling’, a way of being, if you will, that has some trace of that first boat. The trace of diaspora and its attendant experiences do not appear in the ‘mud of the field’ or the ‘dust of the archive’ in conventional ways. The very metaphors of the practice of fieldwork or archival exploration are often inadequate. At times we are entreated to seek out new locations, sites of intervention and ways of interrogating diaspora, as demonstrated in this volume. By at once repositioning our idea of the nature of what is a legitimate target of study, and rethinking or refashioning the boundaries of the disciplines, we may come closer to an understanding of the nature of contemporary migrations, cultural displacements and the social transformations resulting from these population movements. Theorists seek to contain a certain disciplinary cartographic anxiety through the care with which their subject of analysis comes to be neatly parcelled out, distributed across regions, cultural domains and otherwise well-defined areas of specialization. Those who live in the diaspora, by contrast, confound such notions as Asia, Africa, Europe and the Americas in daily practice. Between the categories of the theorist and others engaged in these lives we must seek out a way of understanding the coming and going at the core of this process through an exploration of the relationship between the diaspora theory and experience. Our days are marked by the visions of people in motion. Diasporas are historical phenomena bound up in the processes of global capitalism, the changing fortunes of nation-states and the complex interplay of power relations within and between nations of origin and settlement. In attempting to account for some of these features scholars have often employed the metaphor of navigation.5 The notion of navigation seems to condense a number of themes concerning representation, identity, consciousness, politics and diaspora formation. The trope of navigation has come to be shared by social scientists, politicians, journalists, novelists and filmmakers. Combining the notion of cultural distance with the ambiguity of cultural translation, the trope of navigation allows the ‘other’ to remain distant and exotic while reserving the right to exclude this ‘otherness’ as it may remain wholly unintelligible. And should this ‘other’ remain xv

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impervious to the transformations necessary to pass into the cultural and social world of the present, our present, we seem to reserve the right of exclusion of this new threat, a practice I call the politics of closure. Visions of Haitian makeshift boats and Cuban crafts and rafts bound together with all manner of bindings by the men, women and children trying to escape poverty are the images that float through the newspapers and immigration discourse of our times. Of course there are some who do reach the shores of a Promised Land. But many voyagers never reach their destinations. The crafts that founder, that are lost off the coast of Spain, or the Mexican workers who die for lack of oxygen in the back of rented trucks headed for the sweatshops of California or the chicken factories of Maryland – each fades into the minutiae of contemporary news media. There is even a ‘celebration’ in the media, and often in the form of semi-documentary films, that justifies the forces of order in the control of populations that seek to reach the safety of new homelands. In the United States the border with Mexico provides countless images of border patrols, smugglers and confrontations with border police. Or the many vessels transporting would-be migrants from mainland China, packed in the depths of the ships that fly the flag of their desperation. Even the frozen lakes of the Canadian border provide walkways for migrants who must at times be pulled from the waters and processed by border agents and sent on their return journey. Indeed, the navigation off the coast of Spain and the countless speedboats that dart off the ribbon-like expanse of the Italian coastline dropping human cargo just before the light of day converge in the currency of contemporary diaspora formation. One of the most haunting images of the late twentieth century has to be that of the tiny, wave-tossed crafts of the so-called ‘boat people’ during the mass exodus from Southeast Asia. Cast out on the seas in the least seaworthy of vessels, subjected to pirates, violence and violations of body and spirit, these lives provide us with emblematic forms of desperation and human tragedy, both in popular culture and in the world of expert or scholarly discourse. Such powerful images define the contours of the popular imaginary of forced dispersal, dramatic changes of state/status and the seeming powerlessness of the victims in process. This image condenses the central notions many of us hold of diaspora. The representation of such translocal, transcultural passages is often rendered intelligible to us through the idea of navigation. The ‘boat people’ convey to us a kind of surplus of meanings connecting home and country of settlement to a ready cultural logic provided by such taken-for-granted notions as assimilation, multiculturalism and cultural pluralism available to all and avidly recapitulated through media, literature and scholarship. This xvi

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confluence of ideas about the cultural and social markings comes to us through what Antonio Gramsci calls ‘common sense’ knowledge, a mixture of modes of thought inherited from the past and contained in national narratives, folk ideology, and fragments of scientific theory in any social formation (Landy 1986: 80). The ‘common sense’ understandings of the ‘boat people’ help to naturalize this image, rendering it a taken-forgranted part of our worlds. The search in social theory for explanatory models that define and characterize the present seems to have accelerated as we face a new century. The tumultuous patterns of social, cultural and economic dislocations of global capitalism and the complex interplay of power relations in and across nation-states has often been associated with the creation of vast interconnected global systems of cultural, economic and social relations and the decentring of the people, objects and ideas that move across the ‘hypermodernity’ of late capitalism. Marked by unprecedented migrations, cultural disruptions and social disorders, the ‘multilinear quality of capitalism and modernity’ take on diverse cultural forms across different social formations (Pred and Watts 1992). The scope and nature of the reactions to these changes is experienced differently in each context. This New World shatters the idea of territorially fixed communities and of a local knowledge capable of producing relatively stable and clear-cut identities. Images of disjunction and the proliferation of identities in motion replace ‘essential’ markers of identity and boundary. The figure most commonly associated with the borderlands and interstitial zones of this world, caught between at times reconfigured national spaces, are the migrant, or diaspora communities. The new African diasporas explored in this volume are an integral part of this rapidly changing world.

Notes 1 Within the very same week that my family and I arrived in Turin, Italy, in the summer of 2001, the mother of a long-time friend sent a present to us from Dakar through a young women who was returning to Italy after her holiday. 2 The Nuer and Dinka represent for anthropological literature inaugural ‘others’. They fit into a kind of classical tradition of the ‘exotic’ other. For a discussion of the ‘savage slot’ in anthropological thinking and the construction of the self-definition of the so-called West, see Trouillot (1995). Some suggest that the Nuer have diverged from the Dinka in recent centuries, while others, looking at the classical sources on the Nuer such as Evans-Pritchard, seem to think that the line between Nuer and Dinka may have been more fluid in the past, allowing one group to attach itself to the settlements of the other and in time becoming dependents of the neighbouring group (see Holtzman 2000). 3 I draw on the work in this essay of Evans-Pritchard and Godfrey Leinhardt

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partly following the logic of the incident I recount there of the Roman shelter, and also to represent anthropological traditions often associated with the work of these authors. Godrey Lienhardt’s name is often associated with work in the phenomenological realm of the Dinka, his investigation of their notion of selfhood, time and space and the idea of divinity is unparalleled. I wish to emphasize here the innovative manner in which Evans-Pritchard’s work employs a notion of ecological and cultural dynamic that inform the lives of people. In his famous ecological chapter in The Nuer, they emerge as people for whom the landscape is living tissue. The Nuer vision of landscape is integral to their self-definition. When we look through the lens of migration we often displace people from the cultural, ecological and social centres of their lives. Abstract notions like ‘flows’ and ‘dynamics’ entail detachment of a group of people from a world of meanings. What we might call ‘experience’ and ‘form’ are often lost in our discussions of diaspora. 4 See Sharon E. Hutchinson’s discussion of the contemporary struggle of the Nuer, who at times must go for long periods to ‘far-off Khartoum’ to study or to work as labour migrants in the construction industry (Hutchinson 1996: 70). Hutchinson notes a labour history that compels many migrants to be away for years at a time – taking pride in their work, migrants ‘assert . . . that they have built Khartoum’. 5 In an address commemorating the anniversary of the desegregation of Little Rock Central High School in Arkansas some years ago, former President Clinton employed the idea of navigation in an invocation of national solidarity: ‘Only the American idea is strong enough to hold us together . . . whether our ancestors came here in slave ships or on the Mayflower, whether they came through the portals of Ellis Island or on a plane to San Francisco, whether they have been here for thousands of years, we believe that every individual possesses a spark of possibility.’ Paul Gilroy in his book The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness employs the image of the slave ship as ‘a living, micro-cultural, micro-political system in motion’ (p. 18), in the constitution of the African diaspora. Even Homi Bhaba in The Location of Culture notes that the ‘middle passage of contemporary culture . . . is a process of displacement and disjunction that does not totalize experience’ (p. 8). Each of these statements places a premium on the idea of navigation (diaspora) as constitutive of the social, cultural and political nature of contemporary society.

References Bhaba, Homi K., 1994, The Location of Culture, New York: Routledge. Carter, Donald, 1997, States of Grace: Senegalese in Italy and the New European Immigration, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Chow, Rey, 1993, Writing Diaspora: Tactics of Intervention in Contemporary Cultural Studies, Bloomington: Indiana University Press Clifford, James, 1997, Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Evans-Pritchard, Edward, 1940, The Nuer, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gilroy, Paul, 1994, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, Harvard: Harvard University Press.

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Gilroy, Paul, 2000, Against Race: Imagining Political Culture beyond the Color Line, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Holztman, Jon D., 2000, Nuer Journeys, Nuer Lives: Sudanese Refugees in Minnesota, Boston: Allyn and Bacon. Hutchinson, Sharon E., 1996, Nuer Dilemmas: Coping with Money, War, and the State, Berkeley: University of California Press. Jameson, Fredric, 1998, ‘Notes on Globalization as a Philosophical Issue’, in Jameson, Fredric and Masao Miyoshi (eds), 1998, The Cultures of Globalization, London: Duke University Press. Landy, Marcia, 1986, Fascism in Film: The Italian Commercial Cinema, 1931–1943, Mineapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Leinhardt, G., 1961, Divinity and Experience: The Religion of the Dinka, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Palmer, Colin, 1998, ‘Defining and Studying the Modern African Diaspora’, Perspectives, American Historical Association Newsletter, 36, 6, September. Pred, Allan and Watts, Michael, 1992. Reworking Modernity: Capitalisms and Symbolic Discontent, Newbrunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Trouillot, Michel-Rolph, 1995, Silencing the Past: Poer and the Production of History, Boston: Beacon. White, Hayden, 1978, Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

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A number of the chapters in this volume were presented in an earlier form at a workshop funded by the Economic and Social Research Council (UK) Transnational Communities Programme and St Antony’s College, Oxford and hosted by the Migration Research Unit (University College London). I am grateful to William Beinart, Robin Cohen and Tony O’Connor who jointly chaired the workshop. I am also grateful to Charlie Pinkerton for his assistance in formatting the chapters.

1 NEW AFRICAN DIASPORAS 1 An Introduction Khalid Koser

Introduction On the street corners of New York City, recently arrived West African traders sell to African Americans artefacts that appeal to their nostalgia for an Africa that no longer exists. In the schools of London, one per cent of children speaks Somali, while Yoruba is the ninth most common second language among children and Akan the thirteenth. In Paris there are over two thousand African Associations. Ghanaians in Toronto closely monitor the price of cement in Ghana, in order to build houses at home as cheaply as possible. The majority of Eritreans in the UK and Germany pay to the Eritrean state an annual contribution amounting to two per cent of their incomes. Somali communities in the USA and Europe send home the equivalent of over 120 million US dollars per year – these remittances regularly doubling the average household income in parts of Somalia. These anecdotes, selected from the contributions in this volume, begin to explain its focus on ‘new African diasporas’. There is a significant – and growing – literature on the African diaspora, sometimes also described as the ‘black diaspora’ (Bonnett and Llewellyn Watson 1990; Conniff 1994; Harris 1993; Jalloh et al. 1997; Segal 1995). This literature usually considers that the original African diaspora arose from the dispersal of Africans as a result of the slave trade, although some scholars argue that there were earlier African diasporas comprising, for example, Egyptian and Ethiopian seafarers, Moor traders and the Mandingo mariners (Bernal 1991; Drake 1987, 1990; Lefkowitz 1996). Still, slavery has been the principal focus of most African diaspora literature, and has been subjected to exhaustive analysis, (for example Anstey 1975; Awoonor 1992; Berlin and Hoffman 1983; Curtin 1970; Drachler 1975; Gates 1987; Thompson 1988). 1

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Much literature also extends the concept of the African diaspora to include the descendants of slaves who continue to live away from their ‘homeland’, and in this context it has mostly focused on the United States. Some of this literature makes explicit links between slavery and the experiences of subsequent generations, for example exploring continuity and change in African diaspora cultures. For other scholars the association is implicit, for example underlying the pan-African movement and providing added justification for ‘black’ resistance movements (Campbell 1988; Drake 1993; Esedebe, 1994; Lake 1995; Makonnen 1973). In contrast, the description ‘diaspora’ has been applied less frequently to what might be conceived of as a second ‘wave’ of African migration outside the continent in the early twentieth century, and often in the UK and northern Europe (e.g. Banton 1955). Besides their primary focus on slavery, another characteristic of most African diaspora studies is their insistence on a single diaspora. Clearly the suggestion is not that slaves were transported from a single origin to a single destination. Although the Atlantic slave trade to the United States was dominant and has received the bulk of attention, there was also a substantial slave trade across the Indian Ocean (Harris 1971; Segal 1995) as well as large-scale slave plantations in South America and the Caribbean (Andrews 1980; Nascimento 1992) and in the Mediterranean (Hunwick 1992). Neither is the suggestion that there was a single slave experience or that there is a common memory. Much of the literature recognizes, for example, the specific experiences of slave women and their female descendants (Bush 1990; Gollock 1969). While fully acknowledging difference within the African diaspora, much of the literature nevertheless focuses on its unifying characteristics. These are suggested to include a pan-African political movement (Drake 1975), a shared cultural heritage (Hall and Freedle 1978), a common experience of ambiguous identities (Gilroy 1993) and outright racism and exclusion from host societies. In this respect, this volume represents a departure from the dominant discourse on the African diaspora. It ‘updates’ the ‘diaspora’ concept in the African context. The concept of diaspora has recently been revitalized – not least in this series – and is now orientated away from the catastrophic and involuntary dispersal of which slavery is such a good (and terrible) example (Cohen 1997). For example, other volumes in this series are concerned with the Sikh, Hindu and Italian diasporas. Yet in the African context ‘diaspora’ has only rarely been divorced from slavery (one example is McGown 1999). In contrast, this volume focuses specifically on recent African migrations that have created ‘new’ diasporas. Given the association of early African migrations with the original diaspora concept, 2

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more recent African migrations provide an interesting opportunity to evaluate its revisions. One of the themes that characterizes this book, for example, is that the distinction between earlier and later concepts of diaspora is at times unhelpful. At the same time, its focus on recent African migrations beyond the African continent means that this volume also contributes towards filling a significant empirical research gap. Arguably, a preoccupation with slavery and its descendants has diverted our attention from striking new patterns and processes associated with recent migrations. In some cases these have taken place on a significant scale, although another reason for their lack of analysis has been the virtually complete absence of reliable data. Still, in this volume, Montclos estimates that aggregated host country data suggesting that there are over 200,000 Somalis outside Africa may represent only one third of their true population; Riccio estimates that there are over 30,000 Senegalese in Italy alone and Styan that there are about 15,000 people from the Democratic Republic of Congo in London. Just these three case studies also illustrate the range of processes associated with recent African migrations. Somalis, Senegalese and Congolese have arrived variously in Europe as students, professionals, asylum seekers and ‘clandestine migrants’. Its focus on more recent African migrations therefore provides the context for another departure in this volume from the dominant African diaspora discourse, namely towards a plurality of African diasporas. A final reason for the focus in this volume on ‘new African diasporas’ is to explore the extent to which they are beginning to realize the potential or assume the power so often ascribed to other global diasporas in recent literature. Diasporas have variously been described as influential in the international political arena (Shain 1995; Sheffer 1995), as representing a new force in international finance and commerce (Kotkin 1992), as providing an important source of adaptive strength and social resistance (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1994), or as embodying a new cultural hybridity (Hall 1990). Some commentators are critical of the celebratory nature of this recent literature on diasporas. But if new African diasporas can realize even a semblance of this sort of power, an important question to ask is to what extent it can be targeted on tackling some of the manifold problems that hound most of their countries of origins. If it cannot, the question that needs to be answered is why not, and by implication in what ways are new African diasporas different from other global diasporas?

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New definitions What is meant and who is covered by the concept ‘new African diasporas’? This question is answered in two ways here. The first is simply to explain the editorial criteria for inclusion in this volume. The second is to explore the competing definitions of diaspora that arise in the contributions. The geographical criteria used in this volume stipulate that new African diasporas include migrant communities from so-called ‘Black’ Africa, currently living outside the African continent. Clearly these criteria are arbitrary. They exclude significant migrant populations from the Maghreb (Brussels is purportedly the world’s second largest Moroccan city) and migrants (including Black Africans) from the Republic of South Africa. In an earlier volume in this series, entitled New Diasporas, Nicholas van Hear (1998) includes as a case study Ugandan Asians expelled by Idi Amin, and it is not clear whether they too comprise a new African diaspora – they are not included in this volume. Similarly, van Hear includes in his definition of diasporas Ghanaians living in (and subsequently expelled from) Nigeria. Clearly the majority of African international migrants remain within the African continent, but they are not included within the scope of this volume. But beyond these geographical stipulations, there is little consensus among the authors in this volume, for example about what constitutes ‘new’. All of the chapters are primarily concerned with migrations from post-colonial Africa (arguably with the exception of Eritreans who fled before Eritrean independence) and usually in the last twenty years or so. At the same time, several contributions examine the interactions between these ‘new’ diasporas and earlier diasporas. Neither is there clear agreement amongst the authors concerning criteria that might determine who comprises or what forms a diaspora. For example, different authors deal with communities of different relative sizes – there is no agreement over whether there needs to be a critical mass of migrants to form a diaspora. And while some authors are concerned with national diasporas – that is, migrant communities whose association is a common national origin – others focus on what might more appropriately be described as religious or ethnic diasporas, such as that comprised of Mourides from Senegal. There is arguably nothing wrong with not defining fixed criteria in the definition of a diaspora – a flexible approach is perfectly appropriate for a plural and dynamic concept. Indeed, for Stuart Hall, one of the hallmarks of ‘the diaspora experience’ is that ‘ . . . it is not defined by essence or purity, but by the recognition of a necessary heterogeneity and diversity’ (Hall 1990: 235). There is certainly nothing unusual in the lack of con4

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sensus exhibited in this volume. Different contributors to this series on Global Diasporas, for example, have adopted different perspectives. Indeed, none of the various recent attempts to revitalize the diaspora concept have been preoccupied with specific geographical or numerical criteria. Instead their definitions revolve around rather more expressive criteria, relating, for example, to a history of dispersal, myths and memories of the homeland and ambiguous relations with host societies. When such criteria are applied to the specific context of new African diasporas, at least four competing perspectives emerge. Some commentators see in certain recent migrations from Africa reflections of the original African diaspora. It is certainly true that there have been significant forced migrations from the African continent. One clear example in this volume is the ‘refugee diaspora’ from Somalia. Less clear examples are provided in chapters that cover migrants who have not fled primarily for political reasons, and thus do not necessarily qualify for refugee status, but who consider themselves to have been forced to leave their home countries as a result of economic hardships. The Congolese diaspora is one example. Writing in other contexts, some commentators have likened the recent phenomenon of human trafficking to slavery (O’Neill Richard 1999), and it is clear that at least some recent African migrants in Europe have been trafficked there (Miko and Park 2000). Beyond their involuntary nature, however, it is debatable to what extent there are other direct parallels between the slave trade and recent refugee movements. The latter, even where trafficking is involved, lack the organization and certainly lack the contemporaneous legitimacy of the former. And again even trafficked migrants, who may well be exploited, are certainly not legally exploited. In contrast, more recent definitions of the diaspora concept open up the possibility more incontrovertibly to apply it to recent African migrations. Indeed, at times the definitions proposed by certain authors are so flexible that the term seems to apply to virtually any population that originates in a land other than that in which it resides (Vertovec and Cohen 1999). Similarly, James Clifford suggests that the label has become so common that it seems to be replacing, or at least supplementing, ‘minority discourse’ (Clifford 1994). More specificity is introduced by Sheffer, who proposes that: Modern diasporas are ethnic minority groups of migrant origins residing and acting in host countries but maintaining strong sentimental and material links with their countries of origin – their homelands. (1986: 3) 5

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This simple definition captures the essence, if not the detail, of other definitions proposed, for example, by Marienstras (1989) and Safran (1991). It also captures the essence of all the case studies included in this volume. In his introductory volume to this series, Robin Cohen went one step further, by developing a typology of diasporas. He distinguished between victim, imperial, trade, cultural and labour diasporas, all of which share the essential character identified by Sheffer and others, but which have been created for different reasons and have different underlying rationales. Although Cohen himself recognizes that there may be blurred boundaries between these types, this volume certainly contains examples of victim diasporas (the Somalis), trade diasporas (the Senegalese) and labour diasporas (the Ghanaians). Until recently, the diaspora concept has been contested fairly exclusively in the academic literature. The diaspora discourse has now also entered policy circles and the vocabulary of migrant groups. At a meeting in Libreville (Gabon) in March 2001, government representatives from twenty-four African countries met to approve a new programme jointly co-ordinated by the Organisation for African Unity (OAU) and International Organisation for Migration (IOM) focusing on Migration for Development in Africa (MIDA). This programme acknowledges the general lack of success of previous programmes that attempted to ‘reverse the brain drain’ by encouraging skilled African migrants to return to their home countries. Instead its main purpose is explicitly to enhance the contribution that African diasporas can make to development in their home countries without returning home permanently. While the MIDA programme continues to be developed, and is yet to be formally ratified, what is interesting is the way that the notion of a diaspora has been adopted and adapted by so many African governments. Their use of the term has some rather specific connotations. For example, it is interesting that Africans who, it was hoped, still intended to return home were usually described in policy documents in Libreville as ‘migrants’, whereas those who were apparently permanently settled in their host countries were now described as forming part of a diaspora. In general, diasporas are also regarded as comprising economic migrants rather than refugees. This follows from an understandable reluctance on the part of African governments to engage with political opponents overseas. More specifically, they have tended to use the term to cover highly skilled and well-educated migrants. This reflects the developmentoriented nature of their interest in African communities overseas. Perhaps most interesting of all is the way that the description ‘diaspora’ is gaining currency within a number of African communities themselves. 6

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Arguably, self-definition is just as legitimate a reason to describe a group as a diaspora as any other. At least three reasons emerge from the contributions to this volume. One concerns relations with the host society, and arises from the perception on the part of these communities that there are fewer negative connotations currently associated with the term diaspora than with the terms ‘immigrant’, ‘refugee’ or ‘asylum seeker’. Perhaps as a result of its longstanding association with the dispersal of Jews and African slaves, the term has yet to be adopted in a derogatory manner by the media. Secondly, for at least some communities the term appears to be ‘self-motivational’. Diaspora is becoming a ‘buzzword’ rather like globalization, and for some communities appears to have connotations with which they are keen to be associated. In this volume, Jayne Ifekwunigwe, who defines herself as part of a new African diaspora, describes the concept of diaspora as a ‘. . . marketable millennial cultural currency . . . which re-casts our recurrent homelessness as an asset rather than a deficit’ (p. 58). Finally, for at least some communities, there is a sense that their experiences in some way compare with those of the original diasporas – that they too are victims, just as were dispersed Jews and African slaves. Arguably, association with these groups also might promote a more widespread sympathy within host societies.

New patterns and processes Competing definitions provide one explanation for the focus in this volume on diasporas in the plural. There are several others. The most straightforward is that the volume is concerned with migrant communities from different origins and in different destinations. It includes chapters on diasporas originating in Côte d’Ivoire, the Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly Zaire), Eritrea, Ghana, Senegal and Somalia, located variously in Canada, France, Germany, the Middle East, the United Kingdom and the United States. In some cases (the Ghanaian and Senegalese diasporas), authors provide evidence for transnational linkages within geographically dispersed single diasporas. There is no evidence in this volume, however, for links between different diasporas. In other words, these are on the whole separate diasporas. The differences between the different diasporas covered in this volume extend, however, far beyond their specific geographies. As explained above, this is a broadly different conclusion from that reached in many earlier studies of the African diaspora, which have tended to emphasize a shared experience. It may well be that these earlier studies exaggerated this sense of unity; still, it is worth reflecting briefly on the sources of diversity among new African diasporas. 7

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One source is broadly different reasons for dispersal. Quite deliberately, chapters have been included that cover different diaspora ‘types’ – following Cohen (1997) – including trade, labour and victim diasporas. These distinctions can have important implications for patterns and processes of migration. Thus while the pattern of dispersal for trade and labour diasporas is shown largely to be determined by opportunities in the labour market (both formal and informal), the pattern of dispersal for victim diasporas largely responds to political circumstances in receiving countries. There are also important differences in terms of the organization of migration. West African traders in the USA and Europe, for example, are shown to migrate on the basis of pre-existing social networks. Friends and relatives already located in the host country assist new migrants to enter the labour market. In contrast, much of the Somali refugee diaspora outside Africa has settled in countries where there was, for all intents and purposes, no pre-existing Somali community. Similarly, their motivations for migration can influence the return movements of diasporas. Some, such as the Senegalese traders, move through the migration cycle on a regular basis, returning to Senegal in order to re-stock for market stalls and beaches in Italy. Ghanaian migrants – who can broadly be categorized as forming a ‘labour diaspora’ – are likely in contrast to move through the cycle only once, returning perhaps to retire. Still others are likely never to close the circle, especially those whose movements have been politically motivated, and who are waiting for political change at home. At the same time, however, some grounds emerge on which to challenge Cohen’s implication that their reason for dispersal provides the primary difference between different diasporas. One reason is that often there is a convergence in the circumstances of diasporas which have been formed for broadly different reasons. Sometimes this results from immigration regimes in receiving countries. In Europe, for example, there are very few formal opportunities for labour migration, particularly of the low skilled. Thus while Senegalese migrants may leave Dakar as traders and entrepreneurs, they enter Europe as ‘illegal’ migrants. Similarly, increasing restrictions on asylum in the industrialized world mean that a Somali may well leave Mogadishu to escape political persecution but will be received as an ‘asylum seeker’. As the clear legal distinctions between ‘illegal migrants’ and ‘asylum seekers’ become blurred by the media and in public perceptions, the Senegalese and Somali migrant may well find themselves facing the same discrimination. Of course their experiences in host societies may also overcome their initial perceptions and intentions in terms of return. It might be argued, therefore, that a distinction between ‘legal’ and ‘illegal’ diasporas is more meaningful than that between ‘trade’ and ‘victim’ diasporas. 8

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A final reason for insisting on diasporas in the plural, however, is to highlight differences within single diaspora communities. The contributions to this volume demonstrate differentiation, and changing patterns and processes of inclusion and exclusion, in a wide variety of ways. A crucial aspect is gender. Takyiwaa Manuh, for example, explains how Ghanaian men and women in Toronto have developed starkly contrasting perspectives on return. While for many men return is viewed as an opportunity to reinstate their traditional responsibilities and power within the household, for many women the prospect is one of reducing a new-found independence. Different generations also have varying perspectives on many issues, including return. Many African adults in the UK, for example, share with many other migrant adults around the world a concern that their children have become socially, culturally, linguistically and often religiously distanced from their ‘homeland’. For children of mixed marriages, questions of identity become even more complex. Economic and social status can also be divisive. The status of recent African migrants ranges from the highly skilled and professional (diplomats, academics, doctors) to the near-destitute (illegal migrants, asylum seekers). One of the chapters in this volume shows, for example, how clear lines have emerged within the Eritrean diaspora in the UK on the basis of whether or not people have been able to afford to pay the increasing contributions demanded of them by the government of Eritrea to fund the recent war effort and its aftermath. For migrants, political status is often allied with economic status, and it is noticeable that those Eritreans who have found most difficulty in raising extra money are often those who still have an insecure status in the UK. Another way that differentiation is often expressed is the extent to which different members of a single diaspora belong to formal community groups. Several authors emphasize that such groups are rarely fully representative – in many cases they are viewed as furthering the causes of the elite within the diaspora.

New potential and power At times there is an exuberance about the revitalization of the diaspora concept, which is ironic given that the concept originated in the tragedy of forced dispersal and exploitation. According to Vertovec and Cohen (1999), for example, diasporas have recently been conceived as a new social form characterized by special social relationships, political orientations and economic strategies; as a type of consciousness that demonstrates an awareness of multi-locality, and as a novel mode of cultural production that interacts with globalization. The literature thus implies that diasporas have a new economic, social, political and cultural potential that can be 9

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wielded transnationally. Policy-makers, too, have begun to share this exuberance. The UK government’s Department for International Development, for example, sees in recent African diasporas the opportunity for the African continent to benefit from globalization, a process which so often has impacted negatively there (Df ID 2000). And, as described above, African governments too are hopeful that diasporas can help reverse the deleterious effects of the ‘brain drain’ – or at least send home significant remittances. Several of the contributions in this volume do indeed point up the potential of certain new African diasporas. West African traders are shown to be enjoying great success as entrepreneurs in the United States and, in another case study in Italy. Somali and Eritrean refugee communities are shown to exert great economic and political influence in their home countries. It would not be too much of an overstatement to say that a part of the Somali diaspora largely keeps the new state of Somaliland afloat, nor that the Eritrean diaspora largely funded the recent conflict with Ethiopia. Another chapter focuses on the great creativity in music and literature associated with the Congolese diaspora in France – approximating to Robin Cohen’s conception of a ‘cultural diaspora’. At the same time, however, these and the other contributions also argue for a more cautious approach. At least four reasons emerge. First, as emphasized above, there are differences both between and within diasporas. Generalizations about diasporas betray the real lives of the individuals that comprise them. Second, diasporas can have negative as well as positive implications. None of the contributions in this volume focus specifically on crime or drugs, for example, but several at least allude to illegal activities. Many recent Francophone African migrants to the UK have arrived illegally – sometimes after paying smugglers – and remain illegally, sometimes also working illegally, for example as prostitutes. The message from the chapters on West African traders is often that their success has been based on an ability to manipulate the system, and often to cut legal corners. Even where it is positive, a third reason for caution is that the influence of diasporas is often narrowly focused, and can be exclusive and even exclusionary. As alluded to previously, for example, there is no evidence in this volume, nor indeed elsewhere, for a pan-African movement that unites new African diasporas. There is actually not much evidence either for diasporas even acting in a national interest. Most Eritrean refugees did indeed originally support independence struggles, but often now their interactions with their home countries are primarily to further the goals of a particular region or locality, religion or ethnic group, or simply to support their 10

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immediate family. And it is probable that certain diasporas further the causes of the elite in their home country rather than those who are subjected to poverty, corruption or violations of human rights. All of the above reasons probably apply across most recent diasporas world-wide, and this is one way in which this volume, despite its African focus, may contain lessons for the study of other diasporas too. In contrast, one experience that is arguably more specific to new African diasporas is racism and social exclusion in many host societies. This is another theme that pervades several chapters, which sometimes give the impression that African migrants can be triply disadvantaged – they are migrants, they are black and they are from Africa. For women add a fourth excuse for discrimination. For Muslims yet another. The conclusions about the implications of such discrimination for diasporic identities are to an extent contradictory. In the view of some contributors discrimination provides an incentive for Africans to maintain their African identity and a dream of returning to a better place. The response of others may be to reject as far as possible their African identities – to try to ‘conform’. Discrimination can, of course, have more concrete implications, for example in the labour market, and thus a fourth and final reason for caution in celebrating too strongly the potential of new African diasporas is that many individuals may not be able fully to realize their potential.

New African diasporas This introductory chapter has identified some of the main themes that arise from the contributions to this volume. At times these themes challenge the pervading discourse on the African diaspora. What adds a certain weight to their challenge is that every chapter is based on recent empirical research. Together they combine quantitative and qualitative methods and analysis, represent a range of disciplinary or sub-disciplinary approaches, and are the fruits of detailed fieldwork in both sending and receiving contexts. As a whole, this volume is loosely structured around the logic of what might be thought of as the diaspora ‘lifecycle’. The first two chapters focus on patterns and processes of dispersal – in other words on the creation of new African diasporas. The middle four chapters examine different aspects of settlement and identity formation. The final two chapters are concerned with perceptions of, and return to, the ‘homeland’. In Chapter 2 David Styan provides an overview of, and starts to explain, recent Francophone African settlement in London. Policymakers and academics alike have been perplexed by migrations such as 11

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these, which appear to defy migration theories that expect migrants to settle in countries with which their country of origin has colonial, trade or cultural and linguistic links. But through closer analysis Styan demonstrates that there are quite well-established communities of Francophone Africans in London, that recent settlement there may comprise la nouvelle vague, but that they do not necessarily represent la nouvelle vogue. He also critically analyses the concept ‘Francophone Africans’, and demonstrates enormous diversity within recent migrations. Marc-Antoine Pérouse de Montclos analyses the settlement of Somalis around the world in Chapter 3. In contrast to the Francophone Africans described by David Styan, Montclos maintains that many Somalis have settled in countries in which there are no established Somali communities, and in this context he describes the precarious nature of their settlement. Arguably, and also in contrast to many Francophone Africans, there is less doubt that the majority of Somalis are refugees fleeing political persecution, even though the majority are no longer recognized as refugees in Western Europe or North America. Nevertheless, Montclos establishes the concept of a ‘refugee diaspora’ – akin to Cohen’s ‘victim diaspora’. He also depicts the Somalis as ‘a community with its mind turned to the native country’, and draws on detailed empirical research to describe the incredibly well-organized system within the Somali community for transferring assets back home. In Chapter 4 Jayne Ifekwunigwe unpicks what she describes as ‘the grand diasporic narratives’ of African diasporas past and present. Specifically, she challenges essentialized ideas about ‘mixed race’ identities for the children of mixed marriages. Using excerpts from her interviews, Ifekwunigwe demonstrates how age, class, gender, ethnicity and locality all intersect to produce plural and dynamic identities for her respondents. Conventional concepts of ‘race’, identity and belonging do not fully capture their experience. They can simultaneously identify with White English or Black African identities, and feel themselves both at home and in exile. The notion of ambiguous identities also recurs through Chapters 5 and 6, in which Paul Stoller and Bruno Riccio respectively analyse the activities of West African trade diasporas. The context for Stoller’s ethnography of traders in New York City is their interaction with the African Americans – descendants of the ‘original’ African diaspora. He shows how the traders have recognised and commercially exploited the resurgent African identities of many African Americans. The traders are ‘marketing Afrocentricity’ – they are selling to African Americans images of Africa that bear little resemblance to the contemporary continent. 12

NEW AFRICAN DIASPORAS: AN INTRODUCTION

Many of the traders included in Stoller’s ethnography originate in Senegal, and traders of the same origin form the focus of Bruno Riccio’s chapter, the context for which is Italy. And it is the significance of context that forms one of Riccio’s main points. Even though Senegalese traders world-wide tend to belong to the same ethnic group and religious brotherhood, and even though their trading networks have the same organizational principles and are often interconnected, their experiences and their success can be quite different depending on the receiving context in which they work. The receiving context is one of many factors that differentiate members ostensibly of the same diaspora, and Riccio’s chapter reinforces the necessity to guard against generalizations. As indicated earlier in this introduction, an increasing number of African states appear to be keen to try to mobilize their diasporas. In Chapter 7, I present a case study of the mobilization of the Eritrean diaspora during the recent conflict with Ethiopia. I suggest that what the state views as mobilization, the diaspora is increasingly perceiving as exploitation, and show how the state’s policies may be dividing the diaspora and distancing a significant proportion from its homeland. My conclusion is that if they want sustainably to mobilize diasporas, African states need to demonstrate responsibility not just to those living on their territory, but also to overseas nationals in the diaspora. According to many scholars the growth of a return movement is a defining characteristic of a diaspora. Chapter 8, by Désiré Kazadi Wa Kabwe and Aurelia Segatti, explores the evolution of a return movement among the Congolese diaspora. They analyse music and literature produced by members of this ‘cultural diaspora’, mainly based in Belgium and France. These sources provide a surprisingly accurate insight into the ambiguous relationship that recent Congolese migrants have with their homeland. The authors conclude that both music and literature are maintaining the ‘myth of return’ – the assumption that return should be the ultimate goal for the diaspora, which is rarely challenged. In the final chapter – appropriately – Takyiwaa Manuh analyses her interviews with migrants who have returned from the Ghanaian diaspora. Her interviews expose the realities behind the assumption that is made in the literature and music analysed in the preceding chapter, that ‘there is no place like home’. Focusing on the divergent experiences of men and women, she shows how returning to a patriarchal system can reinstate the authority of the former but undermine the liberty of the latter.

13

KHALID KOSER

Conclusion Even given its arbitrary criteria for defining new African diasporas, this volume cannot possibly hope to be comprehensive – there are many more overseas African populations than those included here who might also fall within the definition. At the same time, this introduction has tried to emphasize the diversity of experiences encapsulated by the case studies included, and in this way the volume can make claims to be not just illustrative but also representative. As already explained, the primary aim of this volume is to apply new diaspora concepts to recent African migrations – simultaneously exposing some of these migrations to greater analysis than they have often hitherto received. At the same time, however, it is hoped that analysis of these African case studies might also have implications for the study of other recent diasporas too. It may be that new African diasporas have a unique experience of racism, but many other diaspora populations experience discrimination and social exclusion in similar and different ways. It may be that new African diasporas have exceptionally plural identities, but diversity is surely also a characteristic of all but the most unusual diaspora. And it may be that some new African diasporas uniquely are interacting with old diasporas from the same origin, but there are very few genuinely ‘new’ diasporas in the contemporary world that are created ex nihilo. In this way, this volume argues against generalizations both about new African and about other recent diasporas. Its argument is reinforced by the strong empirical analysis that underpins every chapter in this collection. This is significant, as the high level of theoretical development in the newly resurgent area of diaspora studies has not yet been matched by thorough empirical analysis. And it is only through such analysis that definitions can be refined, distinctions re-drawn and assumptions properly investigated.

Note 1 This chapter incorporates many useful comments made during the presentation of an earlier version at an African Studies Seminar at St Antony’s College, Oxford. I am also grateful to Tony O’Connor for detailed comments both on this chapter and on the scope of the volume as a whole.

References Andrews, G.R., 1980, The Afro-Argentines of Buenos Aires: 1800–1900, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Anstey, R., 1975, The Atlantic Slave Trade and British Abolition, 1760–1810, London: Macmillan.

14

NEW AFRICAN DIASPORAS: AN INTRODUCTION

Awoonor, K., 1992, Comes the Voyager at Last: A Tale of Return to Africa, Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press. Banton, M.P., 1955, The Coloured Quarter: Negro Immigrants in an English City, London: Cape. Berlin, I. and Hoffman, R., 1983, Slavery and Freedom in the Age of the American Revolution, Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia. Bernal, M., 1991, Black Athena: The AfroAsiatic Roots of Classical Civilisation, New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Bonnett, A.W. and Llewellyn Watson, C. (eds), 1990, Emerging Perspectives on the Black Diaspora, Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Bush, B., 1990, Slave Women in Caribbean Society, 1650–1832, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Campbell, H., 1988, Rasta and Resistance: From Marcus Garvey to Walter Rodney, Dar es Salaam: Tanzania Publishing House. Clifford, J., 1994, ‘Diasporas’, Cultural Anthropology, 9, 3: 302–38. Cohen, R., 1997, Global Diasporas: An Introduction, London: UCL. Conniff, M.L., 1994, Africans in the Americas: A History of the Black Diaspora, New York: St Martin’s Press. Curtin, P.D., 1970, The Atlantic Slave Trade: A Census, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Department for International Development (DfID), 2000, Globalisation and Development, DfID White Paper. Drachler, J. (ed.), 1975, Black Homeland, Black Diaspora: Cross Currents of the African Relationship, Port Washington, NY: Kennikat Press. Drake, S.C., 1975, ‘The Black Diaspora in Pan-African Perspective’, Black Scholar, 7, 1: 2–13. Drake, S.C., 1987, Black Folk Here and There: An Essay in History and Anthropology, vol. 1, Los Angeles: University of California Press. Drake, S.C., 1990, Black Folk Here and There: An Essay in History and Anthropology, vol. 2, Los Angeles: University of California Press. Drake, S.C., 1993, ‘Diaspora Studies and Pan-Africanism’, in Harris, J.E. (ed.), Global Dimensions of the African Diaspora, Washington, DC: Howard University Press, 451–514. Esedebe, P.O., 1994, Pan-Africanism: The Idea and the Movement, 1776–1963, Washington, DC: Howard University Press. Gates, H.L. (ed.) 1987, The Classic Slave Narratives, New York: New American Library. Gilroy, P., 1993, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, London: Verso. Gollock, G.A., 1969, Daughters of Africa, New York: Negro University Press. Hall, S., 1990, ‘Cultural Identity and Diaspora’, in Rutherford, J. (ed.), Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, London: Lawrence and Wishart, 222–37. Hall, W.S. and Freedle, R.O., 1978, Culture and Language: The Black American Experience, Washington, DC: Hemisphere Publishing Company. Harris, J.E., 1971, The African Presence in Asia: Consequences of the East African Slave Trade, Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press.

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Harris, J.E. (ed.), 1993, Global Dimensions of the African Diaspora, Washington, DC: Howard University Press. Hunwick, J.O., 1992, ‘Black Slaves in the Mediterranean World: Introduction to a Neglected Aspect of the African Diaspora’, in Savage, E. (ed.) The Human Commodity, London: Frank Cass, 45–67. Jalloh, A., Maizlish, S.E., Fyfe, C. (eds), 1997, ‘The African Diaspora’, Journal of African History, 38, 2: 129–67. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B., 1994, ‘Spaces of Dispersal’, Cultural Anthropology, 9, 3: 339–44. Kotkin, J., 1992, Tribes: How Race, Religion, and Identity Determine Success in the New Global Economy, New York: Random House. Lake, O., 1995, ‘Toward a Pan-African Identity: Diaspora African Repatriates in Ghana’, Anthropological Quarterly, 68, 1: 23–46. Lefkowitz, Mary, 1996, Not Out of Africa: How Afrocentrism Became an Excuse to Teach Myth as History, New York: Basic Books. Makonnen, R., 1973, Pan-Africanism from Within, Nairobi: Oxford University Press. Marienstras, R., 1989, ‘On the Notion of Diaspora’, in Chaliand, G. (ed.) Minority Peoples in the Age of Nation-States, London: Pluto Press, 119–25. McGown, R.B., 1999, Muslims in the Diaspora: The Somali Communities of London and Toronto, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Miko, F., and Park, G., 2000, Trafficking in Women and Children: The U.S. and International Response. Congressional Research Service Report, Washington, DC: U.S. Department of State, 98–649C . Nascimento, A.D. (ed.), 1992, Africans in Brazil: A Pan African Perspective, Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press. O’Neill R.A., 1999, International Trafficking in Women to the United States: A Contemporary Manifestation of Slavery and Organized Crime, DCI Exceptional Intelligence Analyst Program – An intelligence Monograph, Washington, DC: Center for the Study of Intelligence, 1–70. Safran, W., 1991, ‘Diasporas in Modern Societies: Myths of Homeland and Return’, Diaspora, 1, 1: 83–99. Segal, R., 1995, The Black Diaspora, London: Faber and Faber. Shain, Y., 1995, ‘Multicultural Foreign Policy’, Foreign Policy, 100: 69–87. Sheffer, G., 1986, ‘A New Field of Study: Modern Diasporas in International Politics’, in G. Sheffer (ed.) Modern Diasporas in International Politics, London: Croom Helm, 1–15. Sheffer, G., 1995, ‘The Emergence of New Ethno-National Diasporas’, Migration, 28: 5–28. Thompson, V.B., 1988, The Making of the African Diaspora in the Americas, 1441–1900, Harlow: Longman. Van Hear, N., 1998, New Diasporas, London: UCL Press. Vertovec, S. and Cohen, R., 1999, ‘Introduction’, in Vertovec, S. and Cohen, R. (eds) Migration, Diasporas and Transnationalism, Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, xiii–xxviii.

16

2 LA NOUVELLE VAGUE? Recent Francophone African Settlement in London David Styan

Introduction This chapter provides a schematic overview of ‘Francophone’ African settlement in London, the bulk of which occurred in the 1990s. It highlights the increasingly diverse African presence in London since the late 1980s, primarily by focusing on the number of Africans arriving and settling in the city originally from former French and Belgium colonies on the continent. After briefly sketching the origins and scope of this recent settlement, the chapter aims to answer two questions: first, to what extent is the Francophone presence in London really a new and durable departure? Second, in the context of an increasingly heterogeneous African presence in London, does it make any sense to speak of a unitary ‘Francophone’ African community in the capital? In exploring these issues, the text also raises questions about the new arrivals’ relationship with their country of origin and fellow nationals in other EU countries, as well as the impact of changes in UK asylum and immigration legislation upon the African presence in the UK. The chapter also emphasizes the problems of evaluating the scale of recent African settlement with any degree of accuracy. Other chapters in this volume highlight the fact that new African diasporas have become global, rapidly surpassing what the descendants of the former colonists perceive as ‘traditional’ colonial and linguistic boundaries, be it Guineans in the US or Nigerians in Italy. Thus the image of Britain as hosting uniquely Africans from Anglophone African colonies ceased to be true during the final two decades of the twentieth century. For example, since 1990 some 12–15,000 people from the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC, ex-Zaire1) have settled in London. 17

DAVID STYAN

Notwithstanding their initially precarious existence in the city, their presence now supports flourishing community centres, shops and restaurants, notably in the north and eastern London boroughs of Haringey and Newham. Congolese foodstuffs, magazines and newspapers, several of them published by Congolese entrepreneurs in London, are widely available, while Pentecostal churches preaching in French or Congolese languages have multiplied throughout the suburbs. Indeed, for Congolese themselves, the mushrooming of churches currently provides the sole viable indicator of the speed and extent of their communities’ spread. In a similar manner, 5–7,000 Ivoirians are also spread throughout the capital, while smaller numbers of Togolese, Rwandese and other Africans with no historical or colonial links to the UK also established settlements in London and other major UK cities in the late 1990s. These newcomers, arriving and settling largely via political asylum procedures, thus modify the largely ‘Anglophone’ profile of London’s well-established African communities, although it should be stressed from the outset that the final section of the chapter queries the relevance of the label ‘Francophone’ as a useful category when applied to African migration. This is in part because even the largest ‘national’ group, from DRC/Zaire, is itself divided into numerous smaller entities. Divisions partly reflect geographic dispersion within London, partly Congo’s own domestic linguistic and political diversity. The relationship between these groups and other Francophone populations such as Ivoirians and Togolese appears at best tenuous. The chapter is divided into four sections: the first briefly surveys how the African settlement in the city is currently perceived, notably via secondary literature and the 1991 census. Second, it looks at the meagre evidence on more recent settlement from Africa, in particular querying whether the data on asylum applications from the previous decade are of use as a guide to settlement. Notwithstanding the fragmentary data, the chapter demonstrates that UK settlement from former Francophone colonies in Africa is now well established and likely to be a durable feature of the African presence in the UK. Third, it then presents some preliminary points arising from interviews with Francophone Africans and community groups in London, notably from DRC/Zaire, highlighting some of the specific problems and perceptions of Congolese in London. Finally, the chapter critiques the notion of a unitary Francopohone presence in the UK in the face of increasingly disparate patterns of migration and settlement.

18

FRANCOPHONE AFRICAN SETTLEMENT IN LONDON

Figures and perspectives on established African settlement in London One does not have to delve into the asylum statistics and applications in order to realize that there are now a significant number of Africans speaking French in the capital. A bus-ride through Tottenham, Peckham or Newham is sufficient to make one aware that there are now significant numbers of Africans from former Francophone colonies living in London. However, whilst groups of Congolese, Ivoirians and others have apparently mushroomed over the past decade, there is virtually nothing written on the existence or evolution of such communities. Are such communities still expanding? Is it correct to suggest they form a ‘new wave’ of Africans in London? How do such groups complement and modify the existing African character of London? Migration and settlement to Britain from former British colonies in West Africa is fairly well documented, both in a demographic and historical sense. Thus scholarly works such as David Killingray’s edited volume (1994) and Hakim Adi’s (1999) account of the political organization of West Africans in the first half of the twentieth century provide considerable insight into the history, presence and political organization of Africans in Britain. Patricia Daley’s (1996) analysis of Black Africans in the 1991 census confirms the impression given by such scholarly works, that, at least until the 1960s, African settlement was largely, although not exclusively, the product of educated colonial elites of Anglophone, West African colonies. Daley provides a more contemporary insight into the evolution and distribution of the longer-established African communities in Britain. For the first time, the 1991 census included a question on ethnic origin, providing the data for a good deal of subsequent work on ethnicity in the UK (Peach 1996). Evidently, data from the subsequent census, collected in April 2001, should improve understanding of the dynamics and scope of such settlement. However, while the 1991 census records almost 215,000 people who classified themselves as ‘Black African’, using the census returns to obtain an accurate picture of contemporary African settlement in the UK is problematic. Daley demonstrates that ‘Neither earlier country of birth statistics, or the use of the ethnic category Black-African in the 1991 census can provide reliable measures of the numbers of Africans in Britain’ (1996: 47). This is largely due to the problems of interpreting and correlating ‘country of birth’ and ‘ethnicity’ answers. While just over 478,000 people are recorded as having been born in the African continent as a whole, a large number of these are White (44 per cent) or of East African Asian origin. 19

DAVID STYAN

However, the key point for the purpose of this chapter is that, up until 1991, the overwhelming majority of Africans resident in the UK were from Anglophone, West Africa. Of the total Black African population of 215,000, just under half were born in Africa, and around a third in the UK. The largest groups came overwhelmingly from the four key former British West African colonies: Nigeria, Ghana, Sierra Leone and the far smaller Gambia. The top twelve sub-Saharan African countries of birth included none from non-Anglophone countries.2 In addition to the predominantly Anglophone background of Africans in the UK in 1991, Daley’s analysis of the census highlights two other factors of relevance for looking at patterns of more recent African settlement. The first is that the profile of longer-established African populations is overwhelmingly highly educated, being either students, or the families of students. Second, in 1991 the vast majority of Africans (80 per cent) were based in London, two-thirds of them in the inner city, with particular concentrations in Southwark and neighbouring boroughs.

Evaluating more recent African settlement Gauging linguistic diversity A more recent, detailed indication of the increasingly diversified nature of African communities in the capital is provided by Multilingual Capital, an extraordinarily rich survey of the languages of London’s schoolchildren (Baker and Eversly 2000). This correlates Local Education Authority (LEA) educational returns from the late 1980s with linguistic typologies established by scholars from London University’s School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS). Like the census, the methodology and nature of these data have their own problems and biases.3 Nevertheless, three observations appear of relevance here: first, the presence of the longer-established West African populations, notably from Ghana and Nigeria, is evident. Yoruba (the ninth most common second language), Akan (Twi, Fante, etc., the thirteenth), Igbo (twenty-first) and Swahili speakers (twenty-sixth) are all well represented. Yoruba, the largest, is recorded as being the language of 1.16 per cent of all primary and secondary school children. Such observations immediately highlight the problem of categorizing such groups as being ‘Anglophone’ Africans, particularly when looking at second-generation Africans, a point which needs considering when labelling Congolese and others as ‘Francophone. Second, the significant increases in people from the Horn of Africa is recorded. Almost 1 per cent of London schoolchildren now speak Somali. Somalis present a fascinating study of migration in that they are 20

FRANCOPHONE AFRICAN SETTLEMENT IN LONDON

simultaneously both some of the oldest African settlers in the UK, and have also seen a large expansion of immigration since the late 1980s (see de Montclos in this volume).4 The deeper history and patterns of their migration to UK ports are similar to those of Yemenis. While Yemeni migration has been studied (Halliday 1992; Lawless 1995), literature on the far more numerous Somali diaspora was until recently sparse. Berns McGowan (1999) provides a partial comparative corrective to this, albeit with an Islamic slant. Nurredin Farah’s recent work (2000) provides an additional global perspective on Somali diasporas. Amharic and Tigrinya speakers also both feature in the forty main school languages in Multilingual Capital. Somali, Ethiopian and Eritrean influxes are all in large part also reflected in the asylum statistics (Table 2.1). Third, and most importantly here, Multilingual Capital demonstrates that in addition to long-established Anglophone West African populations, and those arriving – mostly in the 1980s and 1990s – from the Horn of Africa, growing numbers of Africans have more recently settled in London from former Francophone colonies. Evidently the LEA data only records childrens’ languages in schools,5 but it nevertheless provides an additional benchmark against which immigration statistics and the estimates of community workers can be compared. The data suggest that almost one thousand London schoolchildren speak Lingala (0.11 per cent), as well as identifying a variety of other languages spoken in Congo/Zaire. It also records groups of speakers of languages from Côte d’Ivoire, Benin, Togo, Cameroon, Rwanda and Burundi, although evidently in several of these cases there are considerable overlaps with neighbouring countries. Clearly, as already noted, evaluating the presence of diaspora communities in London via linguistic returns from schools has both general limitations and rather specific problems related to the French-speaking presence in London, as noted in Multilingual Capital (p. 30). These arise primarily from the large number of French-based Creole languages spoken in London, notably by those from both the Caribbean and Mauritius, the latter representing at least 50,000 people in the capital. Not only do different boroughs record French and French-Creoles differently, but also in many cases it appears arbitrary as to whether a child records French, Creole or English as their language. As is discussed later, whether the children of recently settled Francophone Africans are to be fluent in French is a significant concern of many new arrivals.

21

8 0 26 179 196 8 152 n/a n/a n/a

1,050

4,266

Angola Côte d’Ivoire1 DRC/Zaire Ethiopia Ghana Nigeria Somalia Togo2 Sierra Leone Rwanda

Total Africa

Total applications

1986

4,256

1,264

22 0 53 223 125 10 202 n/a n/a n/a

1987

3,998

1,564

47 20 157 227 172 10 305 n/a n/a n/a

1988

11,640

5,095

235 180 525 560 330 20 1,850 5 n/a n/a

1989

26,205

13,870

1,685 1,910 2,590 2,340 1,330 135 2,250 45 n/a n/a

1990

Table 2.1 Asylum applicants, selected sub-Saharan African countries: 1986–1999

44,840

27,500

5,780 345 7,010 1,685 2,450 335 1,995 495 75 25

1991

24,605

7,630

245 370 880 680 1,600 615 1,575 35 325 10

1992

22,370

10,295

320 755 653 615 1,785 1,665 1,465 40 1,050 10

1993

16,960

32,830

Total Africa

Total applications

43,965

22,545

555 245 935 585 1,915 5,825 3,465 75 855 135

1995

29,640

11,290

385 125 680 205 780 2,900 1,780 50 395 80

1996

32,500

9,515

195 70 690 145 350 1,480 2,730 30 815 90

1997

46,015

12,380

150 95 660 345 225 1,380 4,685 n/a 565 280

1998

71,160

18,435

545 n/a 1240 455 190 945 7,495 n/a 1,125 820

1999

398,290

159,393

10,777 4,820 16,874 8,974 13,483 19,668 31,789 830 7,015 1,550

Totals

Notes: 1. Côte d’Ivoire and Togo are included together in many Home Office tables, prompting numerous statistical inconsistencies. 2. These Togo figures come from Refugee Council (1998).

Source: Home Office Statistical Bulletin (various), Refugee Council (1998), excluding dependents.

605 705 775 730 2,035 4,340 1,840 55 1,810 100

1994

Angola Côte d’Ivoire1 DRC/Zaire Ethiopia Ghana Nigeria Somalia Togo2 Sierra Leone Rwanda

Table 2.1 Continued

DAVID STYAN

Are political asylum applications a gauge of the Francophone diaspora? The procedure of applying for political asylum has been the main vehicle for the bulk of new African settlement in London during the 1980s and 1990s. As such, asylum statistics appear to offer one way of gaining an initial estimate of the size of recently arrived African communities, such as those from former French and Belgian colonies. While family reunion has remained a route of entry for some members of better established, Anglophone African communities, for the Francophone groups discussed here, applying for asylum is the only legal way they have been able to enter the UK. Thus the formal immigration status of all the individuals and groups considered here is that of asylum applicants. The considerable backlog in processing applications has meant that for such nationalities, decisions to grant, or indeed reject, refugee or the more common ‘exceptional leave to remain’ (ELR) status have occurred only slowly during the late 1990s. The reason why, by the early 1990s, the asylum procedures had become the primary, and in many cases unique, means of entry to the UK for many Africans and other non-OECD citizens is beyond the scope of this chapter. The manner and speed with which Africans’ relatively open access to the UK prior to the 1980s was replaced by stringent visa regimes appears to have been the subject of no serious analysis outside official circles. Nor has thought been given to the subsequent impact that this has had on Africans’ relationship with the UK. What is apparent is a paradoxical pattern whereby concerns over the rising number of political asylum applications from a given African state led the UK authorities to impose visa restrictions. In several cases the announcement of the imposition of visas then triggered a sharp rise in asylum applications as individuals, perhaps aided by agents, sought to enter the UK in the months before the door of the visa regime was shut. The recourse to asylum procedures is related both to events within the continent and the progressive closure of other means of access to the UK, notably student, tourist or business visas. These shifts need to be seen in three contexts: the wider shifts of British immigration policy; general UK foreign policy towards Africa (for a brief discussion of how immigration fits with trade, aid and other policy objectives, see Styan 1996); and increasingly restrictive controls on entry to the European Union as a whole. Given that there are long-established diaspora groups from Francophone African colonies in France and Belgium, the European context is significant. This is particularly so both because some of the Congolese and Ivoirians have settled in the UK having come from France 24

FRANCOPHONE AFRICAN SETTLEMENT IN LONDON

and Belgium, and because once established here, they naturally communicate with and travel to relatives in mainland Europe. The fact that the UK remains outside of the European Union’s Schengen Agreement thus becomes a significant fact. Recourse to asylum procedures has been necessary for all Africans, including those coming from countries with significant populations already settled in the UK. Thus Somalis (25,000) and Nigerians (20,000) have formed the largest groups of asylum applications from Africa over the last fifteen years. Aggregate figures for asylum applications from nationals from nine sub-Saharan African states between 1986 and 1999 are given in Table 2.1. These highlight the significant number of applications from Francophone countries. From DRC/Zaire, over 16,800 applications have been made, excluding dependent family members, with the peak in applications being made in 1990 and 1991, when 2,600 and 7,000 individuals applied for asylum from the then Zaire. Similarly, almost 5,000 Ivoirians and just over 800 Togolese entered the UK and applied for asylum. More detailed breakdowns of application data also record smaller numbers of Rwandese and Burundians, the latter particularly in late 1999. Monthly breakdowns of applications through 1999 and 2000 show continued inflows from these countries, with Congolese (DRC) representing the largest Francophone African group of applicants. The significance of applications from these Francophone countries is acknowledged by the Home Office, which provides detailed reports on key countries, designed to provide background information for immigration and legal officials. Of the thirty-five reports currently available on-line, fifteen are on countries of sub-Saharan Africa. Four of these, Côte d’Ivoire, Zaire/DRC, Rwanda and Cameroon are former Francophone colonies. Clearly there are major problems in trying to use asylum applications as a proxy for total migration as at least six factors need taking into consideration. First, the data evidently excludes dependants, thus underreports total numbers arriving. However, second, the recorded figures do not exclude multiple applications, which may have greatly inflated the numbers. This was very clearly the case for Congolese (DRC/Zaire) applicants in the early to mid 1990s. The figure of over 7,000 recorded in 1991 is now acknowledged to have contained a vast number of multiple applications. Third, asylum statistics cover only applications for asylum, not final decisions on status and thus eligibility for settlement. Therefore in charting the evolution of communities, one needs an assessment of both the length of the backlog in processing applications, and then the actual outcome and decision. The backlog is clearly crucial in the cases of the groups 25

DAVID STYAN

considered here. The influxes in the early 1990s, and subsequent general backlogs of many years before dossiers reached consideration, are – paradoxically – what has allowed communities such as the Congolese to develop a precarious form of cohesion and stability. It is possible to track Home Office data on the ‘progress’ of applications, while the Refugee Council compiles statistics on the progress of asylum applications from individual countries (Refugee Council 1998); these cover three Francophone countries, Togo, Côte d’Ivoire and DRC/Zaire. If we just take DRC/Zaire, very few cases were fully processed until 1997, and only a small number received exceptional leave to remain or refugee status. In addition, a large number of the 1990–91 applications were refused on the basis of ‘non-compliance’, largely due to the multiple application problem noted above. In part due to public and political attention and pressure, recent Home Office reports are also providing increasingly detailed breakdowns of the progress and outcome of applications.6 Thus if we take the largest Francophone group considered here, the Congolese from DRC, between 1991 and 1999 almost 17,000 applied for asylum, with 100 receiving refugee status and 570 ELR status during that period. During 1998 and 1999 almost 1,900 decision were made; following the pattern of the decade, less than 500 of these were ‘positive’ decisions (405 ELR in 1998), but in 1999 a further 1,155 Congolese were granted ELR under the ‘Backlog Criteria’, an exceptional measure introduced to clear the backlogs accumulated by 1996. Nevertheless, with 1,240 new applications during 1999, by January 2000, 3,500 principal applicants were awaiting decisions.7 Fourth, even in the event of refusal of ELR, the long delays in processing dossiers, and general reluctance or inability to forcibly remove asylum seekers, suggest that the small numbers of applicants actually ‘accepted’ bears little relation to the overall size of the communities. Fifth, there is clearly a further problem with asylum application figures in that they presuppose that applicants correctly state their country of origin. Anyone familiar with refugee procedures knows that this is far from being always the case. There is likely to have been significant misreporting of the origins of numerous applicants from central Africa. This is true, particularly given the political turmoil in the region, the linguistic or cultural affinities across national borders (Angola–DRC/Zaire, or Rwanda–DRC/Zaire in the east), and the fact that virtually no applicants come directly from the countries concerned, some coming via exceedingly convoluted routes. Africans transiting overland via northwest Africa and Spain, or via Eastern Europe are not uncommon (Harding 2000). The fact that country-of-origin data is misleading may particularly be the case with far smaller national groups who perceive their chance of gaining 26

FRANCOPHONE AFRICAN SETTLEMENT IN LONDON

asylum as greater if they claim to be from a neighbouring, war-torn country. Guineans claiming to be from Sierra Leone, Ethiopian-Somalis from Somalia, Moroccans from Western Sahara, to name but a few. Finally, even though asylum application is the only legal method of achieving settlement, it is clear from discussions with community leaders that illegal, clandestine immigration exists, indeed that a correlation between a rise in illegal entries and the tightening of asylum procedures appears inevitable. Those who enter clandestinely can retrospectively claim asylum, but the fact that the 1999 changes to asylum legislation introduced critical differences, notably in access to benefits, between ‘port’ and ‘in-country’ applicants is significant. Nevertheless, despite all these problems, distortions and doubts, the core point is that new settlement from former Francophone and indeed Lusophone African colonies has occurred overwhelmingly via asylum procedures. Discussions with individuals and community leaders in the UK from Congo and Côte d’Ivoire confirm this. In practice, it has been the asylum procedures which have both shaped the lives of those now in the UK, and in large part determined the size and evolution of London’s relatively new Francophone communities.

Aspects of the Congolese and Ivoirian presence and community groups in London Given the problems outlined above, asylum statistics alone can therefore only provide an approximate and flawed profile of the new Francophone African presence in London. Its strength can be better gauged from interaction with the numerous community groups, new churches and other groups which have proliferated in recent years to provide services for migrants from French-speaking African countries.8 As outlined above, the vast majority of these are asylum applicants, and it is therefore unsurprising that most such centres’ primary vocation is to assist refugees with immigration and other practical matters. However, as communities consolidate and gain in self-confidence, the larger centres are now also providing health, IT and language training. Standard reference sources for locating such refugee groups reveal a surprising variety of organizations for refugees from Francophone Africa. By 1999 London was home to over half a dozen secular community groups from DRC/Zaire, as well as bodies formed to support Togolese, Cameroonian and Ivoirian nationals. However, given the precarious nature of funding and often fissiparous nature of such groupings, several bodies listed by the Refugee Council in 1999 appeared to be defunct when contacted in 2000 (Abdelrazak and Kempadoo 1999; Refugee 27

DAVID STYAN

Council 1999). Community groups are spread throughout boroughs with a significant Francophone presence, most often located in offices with other such refugee groups and relying on minimal funding from local councils. In addition, by the late 1990s the Catholic cathedral Notre Dame in central London’s Leicester Square was running a bi-weekly drop-in centre specifically for Francophone Africans. Unsurprisingly, it is groups of Congolese from DRC/Zaire which are both the longest established and best organized of the newly arrived Francophone groups. Notwithstanding the problems of statistics noted above, it appears that by 2000 the total number of Congolese in the UK was probably somewhere between 12,000 and 16,000. However, even amongst Congolese themselves, there is very considerable conflicting opinion on this. The specific history of the arrival of relatively large numbers of Zairean Congolese in the UK beginning in 1990/91 is closely linked to the political upheavals in Zaire in the early 1990s. In this, as outlined below, the forced migration of an initial group of young students to the UK mirrors what happened to Ivoirians at precisely the same time. This is not coincidental as the pattern of political evolution of several key Francophone states in West Africa was closely interlinked. Orchestrated democratization ‘from above’ was simultaneously undertaken in the early 1990s by long-standing African presidents such as Mobutu of Zaire and Houphouet-Boigny of Côte d’Ivoire. This was a response to mounting popular pressure at home, the end of the Cold War and the signalling of a change of attitude in Paris. The latter followed President François Mitterand’s ‘La Baule’ speech at the Franco-African summit of 1990, in which he indicated that continued French financial support might be linked to political democratization. In Zaire’s capital, Kinshasa popular and student unrest had been growing since late 1989. In May 1990 a series of protests and strikes in Lubumbashi University were violently repressed, resulting in the deaths of many scores of students. This prompted outcry abroad, and Belgium, the former colonial power, suspended financial assistance. It was the violence and repression of this period, notably among student leaders and those linked to the rapidly proliferating number of opposition political parties, which prompted the exodus of the first Congolese who arrived in significant numbers in the UK at this period. Why did such students flee to the UK, rather than Paris or Brussels? This was in large part due to the fact that Mobutu’s ruling circles continued to have very close ties with the former metropolitan capitals. Student leaders thus feared, with some justification, that they would not be safe in Paris. However, those interviewed also highlighted the fact that the ‘choice’ of the UK was far from rational, in that in the chaos and panic 28

FRANCOPHONE AFRICAN SETTLEMENT IN LONDON

of those months, it in part reflected coincidences of access, flights, etc., with some students fleeing initially to Cameroon or Côte d’Ivoire. In retrospect it is also clear that students’ arrival in the UK also reflected their awareness of the broader changes in immigration conditions in France and Belgium, where by the early 1990s it was becoming harder to settle, find employment or continue one’s education. In London, faced with very little initial comprehension – either linguistically or politically – by refugee and legal agencies, some Congolese who arrived in 1990/91 eventually gained sympathy and support from a small number of priests and lawyers and set about forming community centres. These included, in 1991, what appears to have been the first and now largest centre, in Tottenham, in the London borough of Haringey, which by the late 1990s had become one of two main concentrations of Congolese settlement in London. The different centres serve different geographical areas of London, and most provide both French and Lingala services, although there is also now a Congolese centre in north London specifically serving Swahili speakers. As such, all Congolese centres have reported that they also assist non-Congolese who speak French, Lingala, Swahili and associated languages.9 Geographically, by 2000 there were significant concentrations of Congolese families, community centres, shops and churches in Tottenham in north-eastern London, and in Newham, notably around Upton Park, in the east. The primary concerns of those interviewed for this chapter revolved around immigration, education, employment and religion. In terms of immigration and asylum problems, one of the clearest factors to emerge was the relative degree of isolation from family and friends in continental Europe. This is due to the inability to travel while asylum applications are processed (over five years for many of those who arrived in the early 1990s), and the fact that the UK is outside the Schengen group of countries. Thus Congolese in the UK are often perceived, both by themselves and Congolese elsewhere, to be in a British ‘aquarium’, able to communicate with, but not to visit, friends and family abroad for many years. Four characteristics of the Congolese communities are worth highlighting in summary form. First, that those here come from diverse parts of the DRC. While the initial groups appear to have come primarily from Kinshasa – and indeed have now in part replicated the neighbourhood structures from Kinshasa in the London suburbs – there are now a multitude of different groups present in London from disparate parts of the country. Second, while many refugees face economic problems, particularly unemployment or very low pay (notably for women), Congolese 29

DAVID STYAN

businesses in London are apparently thriving. DRC/Zaire’s best know export, music, is extensively traded, both in terms of recorded music and concerts (see Kabwe and Segatti in this volume). Individual entrepreneurs are active in hosting and promoting concerts of Congolese stars, as well as running more standard travel services, import–export businesses, etc. This commercial dynamic extends to publications. By mid 2000 there were no fewer than four London-based Congolese publications, in part supported by adverts from London-based Congolese companies. Three are publishing in French. Baobab Africain and Grands Lacs are both ambitious, glossy magazines. These respectively appear fortnightly and monthly, and are publications in the mould of the French weekly, Jeune Afrique. In addition to carrying community news, they have articles on Congolese politics, sport10 and music stars and also act as a platform for the myriad of exiled political groups which now have a presence here. L’Eclaireur is a more modest, bi-monthly, primarily political paper. Finally, the community centre in Tottenham publishes its own community magazine in Lingala, ZACCA-Lisanga. Fourthly, it is the religious activities within the Congolese communities that appear to be the most dynamic and visible aspect of the communities’ growth and profile. According to several key informants, the extraordinarily rapid multiplication and geographical spread of Congolese churches is probably the single most tangible gauge of the size and scope of Congolese settlement in the UK. By mid 2000, in the London borough of Haringey alone there were reportedly at least eight independent churches, many with charismatic preachers competing fairly intensely for souls and supporters. By late 2000 a reliable informant, himself involved in monitoring the proliferation of such churches, estimated that there were around thirty separate Congolese congregations within the Greater London area. Groups were also reportedly being established in other key cities such as Birmingham.11 Most of the churches are Pentecostal and evangelical, often depending to varying degrees upon rival ‘charismatic’ leaders, with most new congregations formed by as an offshoot from an existing church. The reasons for such rapid proliferation of religious activities are complex. In many respects they mirror the multiplication of evangelical and other spiritual bodies within DRC/Zaire itself; indeed, many new churches have links with congregations at home or elsewhere in the diaspora. The increasing geographical spread thought the capital and beyond is also a factor in the creation of new churches. Indeed, the establishment of congregations in areas away from the initial centres of settlement is highlighted by several informants as evidence that Congolese communities are now far larger, are growing faster and are more geographically spread than most realize.12 Several of those interviewed 30

FRANCOPHONE AFRICAN SETTLEMENT IN LONDON

also highlighted the changing nature of the profile of the Congolese presence. Those arriving in the early and mid 1990s were relatively welleducated, urban youths, often with a background in student activism. Those arriving at the end of the decade had a far lower level of education, in part reflecting the collapse of the Zairean/Congolese state during the 1990s. There is clearly also a material dimension to the spread of such churches in that leadership of a congregation can be financially lucrative. The depth of adherents’ wallets rather than the salvation of their souls playing a role in the sub-division of congregations. The often volatile mixture of material and messianistic aspects of new churches appears worrying to some longer-established Congolese. The growth of churches, particularly amongst precarious recent arrivals often looking for spiritual comfort and practical support in a foreign land, prompting considerable concern to secular community leaders. Both the profile and evolution of Ivoirian communities in the UK share some characteristics with their more numerous Congolese counterparts, although the links between them are few and far between. Again, estimates vary but it seems reasonable to suggest there were 5–7,000 Ivoirians settled in the UK, mostly in London, by the year 2000. Given the recent nature of the settlement, the genesis of the Ivoirians’ arrival here is relatively well established. As in the case of the Congolese from Zaire, the initial influx was of students, following unrest and repression on campuses in the capital of Abidjan in the summer of 1991. A serious confrontation between the principal students’ union (Fédération estudiantine et scolaire de Côte d’Ivoire) and the government during 1991–2 ensued. This then merged with more strident protests by opposition parties against the rule of the ailing President Houphouet-Boigny. His death in 1993 prompted further unrest. By 1994 there appear to have been around 2,000 Ivoirians in London. Until 1995 nationals of Côte d’Ivoire did not require visas for the UK and many arrived via Paris or Brussels. Again, as in the Congolese case, this was less than the running total of asylum applications (1,910 alone in 1990, over 700 in each of 1993 and 1994), presumably in large part due to multiple applications. The majority of the community was students, who settled largely in and around Peckham and Hackney. Most of them knew each other from the campus of Abidjan, although they originated from different regions of Côte d’Ivoire. Despite having the same lingua franca and sharing common problems in terms of immigration, asylum and finding work, links between Ivoirians and other Francophone Africans appears to have been limited. Ivoirians interviewed put this down to a combination of their relatively high degree of education compounding an quixotic but ingrained notion of superiority over fellow Africans, however precarious their initial status in London. 31

DAVID STYAN

Several Ivoirian political grouping have operated out of London, and a fortnightly newspaper L’Exile africaine was produced from 1999. As for the Congolese, Ivoirian churches have also multiplied, with around half a dozen Roman Catholic Ivoirian churches in operation. Ivoirian Catholic and Pentecostal churches have both attracted evangelical preachers, with networks of European and North American sister churches sponsoring tours of preachers both from and to Côte d’Ivoire in the summers of 1999 and 2000. Again, there is concern among some that the largely unregulated dynamism of religious activity attracts messianic and unscrupulous preachers on the margins of more established congregations.13

Conclusion: towards a multiplicity of African Londons, not a ‘Francophone’ presence While highlighting the recent nature of settlement in the UK from former Francophone African states, the fragmentary evidence in this chapter suggests that the notion that a unitary or distinct ‘Francophone’ presence has been established in London over the past decade is false. Rather, what has happened is the establishment of a series of new African diaspora communities complementing those established largely by Anglophone West Africans in the 1950s and 1960s. This reflects the increasingly disparate and global patterns of migration and settlement of peoples from the African continent at the end of the twentieth century. It is clear that the Congolese communities of Tottenham and Newham are now relatively well established and will continue to develop. However, the notion of ‘une nouvelle vague’, a new wave of Francophone Africans that washed-up on Britain’s shores in the 1990s needs to be qualified, both in terms of its likely future evolution and its characterization as ‘Francophone’. The size of the Congolese communities appears to have now stabilized; the numbers of asylum applicants from both Congo and Côte d’Ivoire fell sharply from the mid 1990s, although there was a sharp rise again in Congolese applicants in 1999. Yet while what rudimentary statistics that exist, notably on asylum applications, suggest that the numbers of arrivals have fallen, the continued spread of Congolese and Ivoirian churches and other community activities suggest arrivals continue. Here we are faced with a classic enigma of migration. There is by its very definition, scarce evidence of significant numbers of clandestine arrivals from such countries, but does this mean migration has ceased? It is clear from discussions that the decline of formal arrivals via applications for asylum is due to a complex series of factors. The successive reforms to the UK asylum and welfare system are crucial. The Carriers’ Liability Act made arrival, both individually and via agents, far harder. 32

FRANCOPHONE AFRICAN SETTLEMENT IN LONDON

Access to North America appears both relatively easier and to offer greater benefits. This does not mean there will be no new arrivals. As those who arrived in the early 1990s feel more settled and obtain travel papers etc., so interaction with both other migrants in continental Europe and their home countries is likely to increase, notably via family reunions. Similarly, there is likely to be a continued flow of smaller numbers of Africans arriving from Rwanda, Burundi, Congo-Brazzaville, etc. Clearly the considerations raised by wider studies of ‘patterns of origin’ of migration to Europe need taking into account when considering the likely future development of such migration (Böcker and Havinga 1998). Whether such groups either perceive themselves, or should be perceived by outsiders, as ‘Francophone’ remains very much open to question. It is clear talking to even just a small number of educated French-speaking Africans here that this is an issue of some uncertainty, particularly for those with children now going through the UK education system. Notwithstanding the fragmented and uncertain nature of the DRC, the French language will clearly remain the lingua franca of the state for the foreseeable future, as it will in Côte d’Ivoire. With the partial exception of Rwanda, this is clearly also the case in the other former French and Belgian colonies of west and central Africa. France itself and its former colonies – particular in Africa – evidently also continue to promote the use of French within international bodies and La Francophonie.14 Therefore, for Congolese in London, the French language is clearly of importance. This is underlined by the fact that the three commercial Congolese journals published in London in 2000 were in French, as is the Ivoirian L’Exile africaine, and French is generally used interchangeably with Lingala and other languages. Yet the degree to which the French language is the source of solidarity and communication with other Francophone Africans seems far less sure. Communities of and communication between, say, Lingala speakers from western DRC/Zaire and Angola, on the one hand, and Swahili speakers from eastern DRC/Zaire and their East African neighbours, on the other, appear sounder than links stemming from the common use of the French language between Congolese and Togolese, Ivoirians and others. Finally, educated Ivoirians and Congolese in London express considerable concern over the fact that, for their children now in schools in London, French is often their third language. The likelihood that such children will grow with the perception that the French language is a central part of their identity seems slim.

33

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Notes 1 For consistency and clarity, former Zaire will henceforth be referred to as the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), its formal name since 1997, while nationals from DRC will be called ‘Congolese’ throughout the chapter. There is a far smaller group of refugees from DRC’s northern neighbour, Congo-Brazzaville, in the UK. However, all references to Congolese here are to those from DRC, former Zaire. In both literature and conversation DRC is also referred to as ‘Congo-Kinshasa’ to distinguish it from its northern neighbour. 2 For the purposes of this chapter, Mauritus is excluded. Interestingly, in addition to the countries with significant white settler populations, the census records around 45,000 people born in the Maghreb and North Africa, linked presumably to the presence of UK armed forces. 3 In particular, (i) different LEAs record languages in different ways, (ii) a common problem is that children often give a country – ‘Nigeria’, ‘Congo’, etc. when asked what their home language is, (iii) there is an obvious problem in asking children from multi-lingual homes to state their ‘second’ language. The authors specifically note that ‘French’ recorded as a second language poses problems. The data shows that French is the fifteenth most spoken second language by schoolchildren, but no breakdown or consistency as to how many of these are French nationals, how many are Francophone Africans, etc. French Creoles – listed separately – are also statistically significant. Clearly some children of ‘Francophone’ Africans dealt with here may have recorded French as their home language, others Lingala, Swahili, etc. 4 Most particularly following the 1988 destruction of Hargeisa. 5 An essay by Marian Storkey in Multilingual Capital nevertheless attempts to extrapolate from the LEA data what the total size of each linguistic group might be, see pp. 63–6. 6 See, for example, tables 4.1 and 4.2 in Home Office Statistical Bulletin (RDS), Issue 17/00, Asylum Statistics UN 1999, published 12 October 2000 7 Op. cit. (Home Office, 2000), tables 4.3 and 4.4. 8 These notes are based primarily on discussions with a relatively small number of Congolese from the main community groups in north and east London. 9 Several Congolese centres offering advice circumspectly raised the issue of the smaller numbers of Rwandese Hutus circulating in London, some of whom, for obvious reasons, would seek advice in centres run by Congolese rather than approach fellow Rwandese. Britain’s hosting of Rwandese implicated in the 1994 Genocide was highlighted by the arrest in February 2000 of Tharcisse Muvunyi, who had applied for asylum in 1998 and had been living in Lewisham prior to his arrest and deportation to the International Criminal Tribunal in Tanzania in October 2000. 10 Baobab Africain of 20 February 2000 carries an interview with Michel Ngonge, Watford F.C.’s Belgian-born Congolese striker. 11 The forcible dispersion of asylum seekers throughout the UK by the authorities from 2000 onwards will no doubt further accelerate the trend to decentralization away from London. 12 If true, given the relative slowing of asylum applications from DRC, this would suggest that there is considerably more clandestine immigration than

34

FRANCOPHONE AFRICAN SETTLEMENT IN LONDON

generally thought. Anecdotal evidence from Congolese here and reports of those attempting illegal entry via French border ports support this. On 19 February 2001 Tommy Klen Mayola, reportedly a clandestine Congolese immigrant who had been living rough in London, was found dead in the undercarriage of a plane which had left Gatwick (source: Joint Council for the Welfare of Immigrants website, April 2001: www.jcwi.org.uk/ noticeboard/news) 13 The sentencing to life imprisonment of Marie Therese Kouao and her boyfriend in January 2001 for the torture and murder of eight-year-old Anna Climbie in Haringey in February 2000 was a salutary shock to many Ivoirians. Climbie was entrusted to the care of her ‘Aunt’ Kouao by her parents in Abidjan. Kouao, a French citizen of Ivoirian origin, had reportedly brought the child to London from Paris and claimed in her defence that the child had become possessed by evil spirits, which she had called upon local churches to exorcise. Outcry over the failure of support services in Harringu led to a high-profile inquiry opening in 2001. 14 The French Institute in London held a France:Africa cultural festival in March 2000. While French nationals of African origin do use the institute (and Lycée), links between the Institute and the Francophone groups discussed here seem negligible.

References Abdelrazak M. and Kempadoo, M. (eds), 1999, Directory of Supplementary and Mother-Tongue Classes; 1999–2000, London: Resource Unit for Supplementary and Mother-tongue Schools. Adi, H., 1998, West Africans in Britain, 1900–1960; Nationalism, Pan-Africanism and Communism, London: Lawrence and Wishart. Baker, P. and Eversley, J. (eds), 2000, Multilingual Capital: The Languages of London’s Schoolchildren, London: Battlebridge Publications. Böcker, A. and Havinga, T., 1998, Asylum Migration to the European Union: Patterns of Origin, Nijmegen, The Netherlands: European Union, Brussels/ Institute for the Sociology of Law. Daley, P., 1996, ‘Black-Africans: Students who Stayed’, in Peach, C. (ed.) The Ethnic Minority Populations of Great Britain, vol. 2 of the four-volume Ethnicity in the 1991 Census, London: HMSO/Office of National Statistics. Farah, N., 2000, Yesterday, Tomorrow, London: Cassell. Halliday, F., 1992, Arabs in Exile; Yemeni Migrants in Urban Britain, London: I.B. Taurus. Harding, J., 2000, ‘At the rich man’s gate’, London Review of Books, 3 February 2000. Home Office Statistical Bulletin, various issues. A considerable volume of information is also available on-line at: http://www.homeoffice.gov.uk/rds/ areas/immif.htm Killingray, D. (ed.), 1994, Africans in Britain, London: Frank Cass. Lawless, R., 1995, From Ta’izz to Tyneside, an Arab Community in the North-East of England During the Early Twentieth Century, Exeter: University of Exeter Press.

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McGowan, B., 1999, Muslims in the Diaspora: The Somali Communities of London and Toronto, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Peach, C. (ed.), 1996, The Ethnic Minority Populations of Great Britain, vol. 2 of the four-volume Ethnicity in the 1991 Census, London: HMSO. Refugee Council, 1998, Asylum Statistics 1987–1997, London: Refugee Council. Refugee Council, 1999, Refugee Resources in the UK 1999, London: Refugee Council. Styan, D., 1996, ‘Does Britain have an African policy?’ in Politique Africaine 1996, Paris: Karthala, pp. 131–43.

36

3 A REFUGEE DIASPORA 1 When the Somali Go West Marc-Antoine Pérouse de Montclos

Introduction The word ‘diaspora’ has the same etymology as the word ‘dispersal’. It is difficult, however, to define exactly how much coercion is involved in the displacement of populations which, in successive strata, may eventually make up a diaspora. In the policy realm it is still generally maintained that it is possible clearly to distinguish motivations for migration, but conceptually the distinction appears to be more blurred. In Somalia, for example, there has been no government since the dictator Siad Barre was overthrown in 1991. In the troubled context of a country that has effectively fallen apart, it is impossible to discriminate between political and economic reasons for leaving. A substantial proportion of the Somali abroad – 44 per cent in Canada, for example – admit that they have left for economic reasons (Kusow 1998). Those who came after 1991 and claimed refugee status, in contrast, argued that they had fled civil war or banditry, although not the type of political persecution defined in the 1951 Geneva Convention. The Somali communities in the West have mostly settled there only recently. Other than in Britain, Italy and to a lesser extent the United States, they have been formed ex nihilo – two-thirds of the Somali who have settled in Toronto declare that they knew nobody in Canada when they came (Kusow 1998). Many had been refugees first in Somalia’s neighbouring countries – Djibouti, Kenya and Ethiopia. The majority was then urged by events to continue their journey. Their displacement was forced. Other than in a few cases it was not planned, and this makes it different from many earlier movements from the region, such as that of the 32,000 Indians who were driven out of Uganda in 1972 and went to Britain, or of the 43,000 Ethiopian Jews who were evacuated to Israel 37

MARC-ANTOINE PÉROUSE DE MONTCLOS

during the spectacular Solomon Operation between 1984 and 1991. Part of the reason for the difference is that whereas many of the Indians from Uganda had British nationality, and the Falasha ‘emigrants’ belonged to a branch of the Jewish diaspora, the Somali seldom had any of these facilities, and at best could only rely on a few contacts made with fellowcountrymen who had already settled in the West (Karadawi 1991; Kessler 1985; Mamdani 1993; Parfitt and Trevisan Semi 1999; Robinson 1993; Westheimer and Kaplan 1992). Most Somali refugees eventually settled either in the former colonizing countries, Britain and Italy, or in the United States – arguably a new colonizer after it supervised the 1992 humanitarian intervention in Mogadiscio. Others headed for the ‘lands of plenty’ where social services were considered to be most generous, especially Canada, the Netherlands and Scandinavia. As a proportion of the national host population, the largest Somali community in Europe is now in the Netherlands, amounting to about 25,000 people, which includes about 5,000 who are still awaiting a decision on their status. Table 3.1 includes estimates of the size of the Somali communities in the main Western host countries. By analysing their characteristics, the picture that emerges from this chapter is of an evolving refugee diaspora. The Somali are widely dispersed around the world, they are generally poorly integrated and maintain an uneasy relationship with their host societies, and they are a community with their minds turned towards their homeland.

An urban, family grouping The Somali abroad are mainly based in urban areas, and their settlement patterns are often based on family or clan. The Somali are Muslims and they belong to a society that was originally pastoral. The Somali ethnic group is comprised of numerous clans. In English the word ‘Somalian’ should be used when referring to the Somali nationality, and Somali to the ethnic group. All Somali people are not ‘Somalian’, and this applies the other way round too. A few non-Somali minorities live in Somalia, while many Somali live outside the borders of the country, hence the territorial claims over Ogaden in Ethiopia, north-eastern Kenya, and Djibouti. The segmented character of this society combines with a strong family solidarity, and these two factors account for much of the way the community is organized in exile. Another relevant factor is that collective and political identities often overlap. It seems that the majority of the Somali who left in the early 1990s were Darod clans fleeing their victorious Hawiye rivals. The Darod clans that settled in the Netherlands were 38

A REFUGEE DIASPORA: WHEN THE SOMALI GO WEST

mainly Mijertein, while those in Sweden were mainly Marehan. The former belonged to the opposition, whereas the latter were part of the overthrown dictator’s followers. In contrast, most of the refugees who fled in the late 1980s were from the Isaaq clans, whose members had formed one of the most active guerrilla movements against Siad Barre’s regime. Such divisions, once imported to the West, were always likely to cause tension within the Somali communities, particularly in Italy where 65 per cent of immigrants’ associations are made up of a single ethnic group (Birindelli and Bonifazi 1993). In Canada, where the number of Somali associations rose from two in 1988 to about twenty ten years later, the government had to intervene to establish a cross-clan organization named Midaynta (‘Unity’), or the Association of Somali Service Agencies. In the UK, the Anglo-Somali Society was created long ago, but is still considered an Isaaq lobby group supported by former British civil servants in Somaliland. The Somali London Community and Cultural Association are also dominated by Isaaq, while the Somali Community Association is a grouping of Darod from Tower Hamlets in London (El-Solh 1993). As emphasized in the introduction to this volume, even within a single diaspora there can be great diversity. Perhaps as a result of this diversity, the Somali diaspora has not developed a unified, long-term political vision. As a result, most of its associations in host countries are concerned primarily with shortterm needs such as helping newcomers to settle, providing advice on administrative formalities, securing their access to housing, education, employment and health care, providing services in translation, vocational training, linguistic upgrading, and social and psychological support, and defending their civil rights and cultural traditions. Two examples in the UK are the Somali Welfare Association and the Somali Progressive Association in Cardiff, which supervises shelters for newcomers. These two associations, at least, have received subsidies from the town council; but most others barely survive on the membership fees paid rather irregularly by their members. In this context, the tendency to gather in urban surroundings is quite understandable given the facilities that cities offer in terms of assistance, communication and anonymity. They also provide a familiar environment as many Somali refugees originate in urban areas – fully three-quarters of the Somali in Canada, for example. However, in some European countries – Sweden, the Netherlands, Norway and more recently the UK – Somali asylum seekers have been dispersed around the country, and have been denied the opportunity initially to settle either in urban areas, or with pre-existing Somali communities. What gives the lie 39

Official numbers of Somali

12,000

5,000

4,000

Countries

Sweden

Finland

Norway

$4,800,000

$6,000,000

$24,000,000

Annual flows to the Horn of Africa, in US dollars, estimated, 1995–2000

$200

$200

$200

Savings per household per month, in US dollars, estimated

Table 3.1 Financial flows from the Somali diaspora to the Horn of Africa

An asylum seeker receives an average $160 if board and lodging are supplied by the government, about $525 in other cases. A refugee receives the same social security as nationals, $488 to $882. A couple will receive about $930, with $210 for every extra person, not including a $130 subsidy for every child, and free lodging and heating. In comparison, net minimum salary ($1,280), once the rent ($710 for 3 rooms) is subtracted, is about the same amount ($570) as allowances given on an individual basis.

Social aid ranges from $327 to $384 for asylum seekers, and $338 to $786 for refugees. Subsidies are given for housing and health care is free.

Social allocations are an average $365 among half the asylum seekers, who live outside migrants’ hostels; $100 among the others, and as much as $490 among refugees. Housing is free. Despite living costs, the saving capacity of unemployed refugees is proportionately one of the highest in the world.

Characteristics (prices are per adult per month, 1996)

14,000

25,000

20,000

20,000

8,400

Denmark

The Netherlands

Britain

Italy

Germany

$4,665,000

$10,000,000

$10,800,000

$10,415,000

$16,800,000

$100

$50

$90

$138

$200

continued

Admission mostly on a provisional basis; social allowances under review.

Social aid is a fixed sum of $720 for asylum seekers and $1,440 for refugees. Unemployment allowance is $900 per month and basic retirement allowance is $326. There are, however, more opportunities for work on the black market.

Social allowances are on the decline. An asylum seeker gets about $200 and a refugee $350, with about $60 per child. Health care is free, not housing.

Social aid is low ($75 to $125) as long as asylum seekers live in migrants’ hostels. But once their status as refugees has been made official, aid ranges from $579 to $782, with about $200 per child and free or subsidized rent (about $200 per month).

With a budget of $500 million in 1995, the Danish government gives a monthly aid of about $315 to asylum seekers, and $220 to $1,100 to adult refugees, depending on their family situation; health care is free and housing subsidized.

Official numbers of Somali

5,400

30,000

25,000

2,000

Countries

Switzerland

Canada

United States

Australia

Table 3.1 Continued

$1,200,000

n.d.

$22,800,000

$3 000,000

Annual flows to the Horn of Africa, in US dollars, estimated, 1995–2000

$100

n.d.

$178

$100

Savings per household per month, in US dollars, estimated

There also there about 1,000 Somali asylum seekers in New Zealand.

Immigration departments absolutely refuse to give any information whatsoever on the subject.

Average household income is about $900 a month. Except for unemployment, which is supported by the federal budget, the provinces provide family allowances and scholarships. Health care is almost free. Subsidies are over $700 for families in difficult circumstances, $300 at individual level. Rent for 3 rooms is $400, and food for an average household of 4 or 5 persons is $300. Up to one quarter of allowances can be saved by sharing these expenses between several families.

Admission is mostly on a provisional basis.

Characteristics (prices are per adult per month, 1996)

25,000

215,800

United Arab Emirates

Total

$141,865,000

$15,000,000

$12,000,000

$100

$190

$50

Key: n.d. = no data

Sources: Field data, DRC (1997), Opoku-Dapaah (1995), Djuve and Hagen (1997).

20,000

Saudi Arabia

Only lower amounts and family transfers are taken into account, not commercial flows, though there is close link between the two types as beneficiaries also use the money for trading purposes.

Information provided by banks in 1987. Salaries are higher in Abu Dhabi ($1,090) than Dubai ($680), but so are rents ($540 to $270). As only natives of the Emirates can have free health care and education, savings can hardly be above $200.

Housing, transport and food are usually provided by employers, but salaries are seldom above $320. Rent is an average $185, and the education of a child in a private school is almost $30 a month, so that $100 can be saved at most, and transfers to the family in the home country are only about $50.

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to such dispersal policies is that over time the Somali, just like many other asylum seekers, have relocated themselves to urban areas. Urban integration was no doubt easier in those countries where Somali emigrants had been coming for a long time. Britain, Somaliland’s former colonial power, already hosted Somali communities in the second half of the nineteenth century, at a time when most of the Africans living in England were either servants or sailors (Duffield 1993). These early Somali residents settled down in harbour towns like London, Bristol, Hull, Liverpool, South Shields, Swansea, Grimsby and Barry Dock (Turton 1974). Two hundred and twenty-seven Somali were living in Cardiff in 1930 and they organized a British Somali Society, one of the first associations to claim independence for the homeland (Sherwood 1991). Half the 500 Somali then in the UK were Isaaq, while the other half were Darod of the Harti subclan. Both had transited via Aden, and as a result they were often mistaken for Yemenis, who formed a far larger group – 12,000 in the early 1960s – of whom 2,000 came from the British colony of Aden (Dahya 1965; Halliday 1992; Serjeant 1944). Nevertheless, the Somali in Britain eventually developed a culture that was uniquely their own, also distinguishing them from other Islamic communities in the UK like the Bengali. When naval activities slowed down at the end of the Second World War, Somali sailors had to seek employment in other sectors and to resist the government’s attempts to repatriate them. Many had their families come over to join them, with a view to a more lasting settlement. The trend towards settling in the UK permanently was confirmed when refugee women and their children came after the situation deteriorated in Somalia. The number of asylum applications began to rise, from 305 in 1988 to 1,845 in 1989, then 1,850 in 1990 and 1,225 in 1991. Since the early 1970s the Somali have been the third most numerous African nationality to apply for asylum in Britain. There are now about 75,000 of them, according to the largest estimates (Middleton 1994). When dictator Siad Barre was overthrown in 1991, refugee flows naturally increased, and one effect was to make the overseas community younger (Minority Rights Group 1991; Molteno 1992; Omar 1992). Most came from Somaliland’s urban centres and many of them consequently settled in towns such as Manchester or Newcastle, where their fellow countrymen were already living. Like Leicester, to which many of the Indians who were driven out of Uganda came in 1972, Cardiff is now a favourite town among Somali refugees. Half the 4,000 Somali now living there are newcomers, who live mostly in the poorer areas such as Butetown, Riverside, Grangetown and Splott, and lately on the large housing estates in St Mellons. The same social distribution applies in the 44

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eastern and northern districts of London: Lime Street, Aldgate East and Tower Hamlets comprise an immigrant stronghold where a majority – maybe 10,000 – of the Somali in the capital live (El-Solh 1991; Hussein 1993). In Italy, also a former colonizing country, the Somali live mostly in the cities of Latium (especially Rome), Lombardy (Milan), Tuscany (Florence) and Campania (Naples). They came to join a fairly long-standing settlement in increasingly large immigration flows – Africans represented 30 per cent of foreigners living in Italy in 1992, in comparison to just 3 per cent in 1971. The Somali did not, however, form a very conspicuous group, comprising only about 18,000 of a total of 720,000 foreign residents in Italy in 1995 (Birindelli and Bonifazi 1993) In the new immigration countries, the same urban focus for settlement is apparent. In 1991, 91 per cent of the Somali in Australia lived in and around Sydney, Canberra and Melbourne – with a particular concentration (68 per cent of the total population) in the latter. In Canada too, two-thirds of the Somali live in Toronto, one quarter in Ottawa and barely 10 per cent elsewhere in the country. Francophone Somali from Djibouti largely went to Montreal, where 80 per cent of the 58,000 African in Quebec were living in 1995. Over 13,000 Somali are living in Ottawa, Canada’s administrative capital (Affi 1997), and Vancouver is also a popular destination. Toronto is probably the favourite destination for Somali in Canada. In the early 1970s only a dozen Somali were settled in the city, rising to 5,000 in the late 1980s and then to somewhere between 25,000 and 50,000 today. The better off live mostly north of Finch Avenue, between Jane Street and Don Mills Road. The rest tend to be found along Dixon Road and Scarlett Road in Etobicoke. Over 5,000 Somali live in the large housing estates located between numbers 340 and 370 on Dixon Road. Although the neighbourhood has not turned into an American-like ghetto, riots did erupt in 1994, resulting in the enclave being enclosed within a police cordon. In the United States the Somali are somewhat more scattered, although again they are concentrated in urban areas. Out of the 25,000 Somali refugees who have officially been admitted into the country since 1990, some 16,000 live in Minnesota. Of these, 9,000 live in the poorer parts of Minneapolis, Cedars-Riverside and Phillips, and a few hundred others in St Paul or small towns such as Owatonna, Marshall or Pelican Rapids. In California, a community of somewhere between 2,000 and 8,000 Somali, according to local authorities, live in San Diego, mostly at City Heights, where 4,500 of them are to be found in a neighbourhood renamed ‘Little Mogadiscio’, on University Avenue between 58th Street 45

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and Fairmount Avenue. In Texas, some 2,000 Somali live in Dallas, where many work for a taxi company whose name, the Cowboys Cabs, is particularly suitable for a people with a pastoral origin.

A diversity of migration routes and legal statuses The out-migration of the Somali during the 1990s has coincided with a clamping down on asylum procedures across the industrialized world. As the decade has progressed, the Somali have been forced to find new methods and routes for entering the West, often illegally. One outcome has been the Somali increasingly find themselves in a precarious situation in host countries. The choice of destinations for the Somali is obviously influenced by different countries’ policies concerning asylum seekers and refugees. Between 1990 and 1994, the Somali filed about 3 per cent of the total number of asylum applications received in Europe. During the early 1990s approximately 10,000 Somali per year arrived, and their numbers peaked in 1992 at 15,000 (UNHCR 1994). Among the European countries Belgium, Italy, Spain and Norway turned down at least 90 per cent of asylum requests in 1993 (UNHCR 1994). In other countries refusal rates ranged from 50 per cent in the Netherlands to 70 per cent in France, with Switzerland and Germany standing somewhere in between. Britain and Finland ranked among the most tolerant countries, with refusal rates at about 45 per cent. Changes in policy have clearly affected emigration movements from Somalia. From 1990 to 1996, for example, the French Office de protection des réfugiés et apatrides received 1,726 asylum requests from Somali, with a peak in 1993, at which point refusals (1,142) began to outnumber acceptances (567). Almost immediately arrivals slowed down. The same applies in Germany, where Germany’s proportion of Somali asylum requests within the European Union dropped drastically from 25 per cent to 7 per cent in 1994, after border controls were reinforced following the Schengen Agreement. Similarly, in the Netherlands a stricter immigration policy has substantially slowed the arrivals of Somali. In 1994 the procedure on assessing asylum claims was streamlined, with the result that asylum seekers whose applications were deemed unfounded were deported far more quickly than they had been in the past. While in 1994 the Netherlands received about half of all Somali asylum applications in the EU (about 5,000), this figure reduced to 3,977 in 1995 and only 1,461 in 1996. In Sweden about 500 notifications for expulsion have been issued to Somalis since 1992 and about 200 persons, mostly criminals, 46

A REFUGEE DIASPORA: WHEN THE SOMALI GO WEST

have been repatriated. As a result, by 1996 asylum requests in Sweden numbered only 44. Many of Somalis applied for asylum in Norway instead, from where there have been no expulsions. Asylum applications there rose from 552 in 1997 to 938 in 1998 (UDI 1999). One consequence of the tightening of European borders has been that the Somali have moved from one country to another in order to escape deportation. There have been cases of individuals illegally lodging asylum applications simultaneously in several countries, and even using false identities to collect social assistance in a number of countries at the same time. A similar approach has emerged in North America, where many Somali head for Canada overland through the USA, where they try to avoid detection (Kusow 1998). Thus, few Somali refugees have arrived in Canada directly from their native country – about 3,000 as a result of family reunification programmes, 500 through charity organizations and 1,000 through government assistance since 1991. A second migration route for a minority of Somali has been refugee resettlement to the USA following military intervention in Mogadiscio, which culminated with the Restore Hope operation in late 1992. Since 1991 the United States has directly evacuated some 17,000 Somali. What was interesting about these evacuations was that they entailed granting refugee status in the country of departure rather than the destination country. In the USA this approach dates back to the 1980 Refugee Act. This removed the exclusive focus for refugee resettlement from dissidents from the Communist world to include refugees from Latin America and Africa. In the 1990s the Somali were recognized as priority applicants under this programme. It is run by the Joint Voluntary Agency, a group of about ten non-governmental organizations (NGOs) under the supervision of the World Council of Churches. The main office in Africa is in Nairobi, access to which is therefore relatively easy for people from neighbouring Somalia. In Kenya there were so many refugees applying for emigration that strict selection were introduced. Ostensibly these focused on the most vulnerable, but the criteria became the subject of much debate, as the United States was accused of using their quota to resettle the best educated and most skilled amongst the Somali. The picture that emerges is of a range of possibilities for the Somali to ‘go West’. In addition to asylum and refugee resettlement, a third migration route has been clandestine or irregular migration. In Europe, it is estimated that up to 90 per cent of recent Somali arrivals have come with the assistance of smuggling networks. The Dutch Ministry of Justice reported in 1996 that only 12 per cent of Somali arrived in the Netherlands with identity papers, 5 per cent with passports, and that only 12 per cent flew directly to Amsterdam. The remainder 47

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– the majority – have arrived indirectly and illegally. Somali with regular resident status in the Western world have begun to specialize in human smuggling. The Somali term for them is hambar – literally carriers – and their methods are said to include bribing immigration officers, accompanying women and children themselves, and using their names on Somali passports on which only the name of the head of household appears. One of the implications of the involvement of smugglers in the migration of Somali is that the geography of their migration routes is often unusual too. There are currently reported, for example, to be some 3,000 Somali asylum seekers in Russia, waiting to be smuggled onwards into Western Europe. Another route leads to Rome or Frankfurt via Nairobi – Italy, because its borders are relatively porous, Germany because visas are not required there for Kenyan passport holders. This explains why some 6 per cent of Somali now in the Netherlands are thought to have come through Germany. As a result of all this, a large majority of the Somali in the West is comprised either of clandestine immigrants or asylum seekers. The former clearly runs the daily risk of detection and ultimately deportation. Their lives are precarious in exile. But even the latter often find themselves in legally confusing and insecure situations. Those who have been recognized as refugees under the 1951 Geneva Convention are a very small minority. Many of them are part of quotas established annually in co-operation with the UNHCR – 500 in the Netherlands and 1,000 in Norway, for example. For asylum seekers, in contrast, different policies and procedures apply across different countries – even within the EU. For many asylum seekers – not just Somali – it can be very confusing to work out where an application needs to be lodged, whether there are any time limits, when appeals can be made and so on. While very few Somali are granted Convention refugee status in EU countries, the majority in most countries are granted some form of ‘temporary protection’ on humanitarian grounds. Again procedures differ, as to do the rights associated with these provisional statuses. In Italy in September 1992 about 10,000 Somali were authorized to stay, on humanitarian grounds, as specified by a decree issued by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In Sweden too, although only 5 per cent of the Somali were granted full refugee status, most were accepted by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for humanitarian reasons. In the Netherlands during the 1990s about 20 per cent of Somalis were given permission to stay and 11 per cent were given residents permits to be renewed every year.

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A community that is little integrated Living illegally, or with a precarious status, obviously does not make integration easy. Somali in exile have serious adjustment problems and suicide rates are rising, although traditional taboos surrounding suicide make its rates among the Somali impossible to enumerate. Diaspora leaders have spoken out in particular against widespread racism against black people and prejudice against Muslims, into both of which categories Somali fall. Life was certainly no better for earlier Somali communities. In Britain Somali sailors were physically assaulted during riots in Cardiff in June 1919, Salford in August 1921 and South Shields in August 1930 (Banton 1955; Collins 1957; Little 1947; Patterson 1963). However, arguably Somali have not suffered the hostility that some other groups have, because they have kept a low profile and are not particularly numerous. Another important reason is education, and on the whole it is easier for educated migrants to integrate than it is for the less educated. To a large extent the formation of the new Somali diaspora has resulted in a brain drain from Somalia. In Canada, for example, between 68 per cent and 83 per cent of Somali had been through higher education in their homeland, one quarter of which had even been to university (Kusow 1998; Opoku-Dapaah, 1995). Of approximately 5,500 to 7,500 students at the University of Mogadiscio when it was closed down in 1990, some 10 per cent left for the West and 20 per cent for neighbouring countries, while 15 per cent stayed in Northwest Somalia, 15 per cent in the Northeast, and 10 per cent in the capital city (African Education Trust 1996). Broadly speaking, the elite went West. Time has also been a factor in the integration of the Somali. In general, earlier Somali migrants have learned the language of their host country where necessary, have developed social networks and positioned themselves in the labour market. In contrast, the new Somali diaspora is very new, having mostly occurred in the last decade. Furthermore, many are very young. Somali children complain about language problems, difficulties in keeping up at school, and their regrouping in lower standard classes (Ighodaro 1997). Moreover, as Muslims they are reluctant to adjust to Christian or secular education systems: girls insist on wearing veils, some students refuse to sing national anthems that refer to the Bible, and petitions are issued against organizations that criticize corporal punishment at home and place problem children in families with a different religion. Few Somali can afford to enrol their children in Muslim private schools with officially acknowledged curricula. The Somali are sometimes blamed for taking too much advantage of social services. Half of them rely on public aid in Canada, and they are 49

MARC-ANTOINE PÉROUSE DE MONTCLOS

among the most dependent refugees in Norway, where government aid comprises half their income. They are particularly reproached for not making greater efforts to find work. Unemployment rates among them are high – 60 per cent in Canada, 85 per cent in London and up to 90 per cent in Sweden and Finland – mostly affecting young people and adults over 40. In explaining their low economic activity rates, most Somali emphasize racism and discrimination, language deficiencies and their lack of an appropriate education (Djuve 1997). Difficulties in cultural integration are usually accounted for through Islam. According to the Koran, for example, it is forbidden for Muslim women to marry non-Muslim men, and fundamentalists even shun nonArabs. In Toronto 96 per cent of Somali men marry women from their own community, and only 7 per cent say they have any native Canadians among their close friends (Kusow 1998; Opoku-Dapaah 1995). Less than 14 per cent say that they will eventually feel that they are Canadians, and only a minority ever receive Canadian citizenship. In fact, Somali maintain much closer relations with their home country than their host country. One indicator is that they use the telephone so much that the Somali in Germany are now asked to leave substantial deposits because they reputedly often fail to settle their bills before they move (Utteh 1997)! The diaspora pays close attention to events in the Horn of Africa. It is also involved in political and humanitarian action, and has created NGOs such as Horn Relief for the Warsangeli Darod in the United States, the Somalia Environmental Protection and AntiDesertification Organization for the Dolbahante Darod in the United Arab Emirates or the Somali Relief and Rehabilitation Association for the Isaaq in Ethiopia and Washington. Authorities in Somalia have maintained prominent positions for representatives of the community abroad. In the Constitution of Somaliland, for example, article 106 (in 1997) amended the stipulation that candidates to presidential elections must be nationals of the country to include refugees in exile. The financial significance of the diaspora largely accounts for this. The Somali abroad send money to their dependants living in the Horn of Africa regularly and systematically. At first sight there is nothing remarkable about this, as migrant remittances are a widespread phenomenon. What is outstanding about the Somali is that their native country is at war and in addition most of them have a precarious legal and economic status. In this context, the amounts transferred are astonishingly large and frequent, and their organization – through specialized companies called hawilad – strikingly efficient. The Somali in exile have an impressive capacity to save. They save money in any possible way, complementing their social allowances with 50

A REFUGEE DIASPORA: WHEN THE SOMALI GO WEST

black market jobs, eating cheaply and buying clothes in charity shops. Occupation rates in houses where Somali live are at least twice the usual average.

A community with its mind turned to the homeland I have calculated that remittances to their families at home from Somali abroad amount to over 140 million US dollars a year (Table 3.1). This is about twice the amount invested in Somalia by the United Nations (UN) or European development agencies. Nowadays, the latter spend a total of about 60 million US dollars a year, including the salaries of expatriates that may amount to as much as 60 per cent of the budget of a project. Ever since the Restore Hope operation failed in 1994, aid to Somalia has substantially reduced, and is no longer as decisive a leverage for action as it used to be, from an economic or a political point of view. This makes the hawilad transfers all the more vital. True, they are relatively small when compared with the financial resources mobilized by some other communities abroad. Jewish organizations alone can mobilize 400 million US dollars a year for Israel, and the three to four million Lebanese living abroad sent as much as 2.2 billion US dollars to their native country in 1980 (Angoustures and Pascal 1996). On a global scale, migrant remittances are estimated by the UN to amount to about 70 billion US dollars a year – less than commercial flows in the oil sector, but as much as the turnover of drug trafficking! The values presented in Table 3.1 are no more than estimates, and make no pretensions towards precision. The most recently available official (normally host government) estimates of population size are used, and available demographic data have been used to estimate the proportions of individuals and families. Monthly incomes are estimated only on the basis of available welfare assistance, and clearly this is an underestimate, as some do not claim benefits because they are working, and some work illegally and claim benefits at the same time. Estimates of the proportion of income that is saved are based on interviews with Somali in selected host countries. Hawilad officers in the West do not like to provide figures, partly because they operate secretly to avoid taxation, and partly because they do not want to jeopardize welfare payments for their clients. Estimates of the proportion of savings that are remitted are therefore also made on the basis of interviews with Somali themselves. With reservations, it is possible to verify these approximations of remittances from various other sources. According to surveys conducted by the International Labour Organisation (ILO) in 1985, the 165,000 to 51

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200,000 Somali living in the Middle East earned 700 million dollars a year, of which approximately 30 per cent – 280 to 370 million US dollars – was sent back to their native country (Jamal 1992; Jobs and Skills Programme for Africa 1989). Since then, the number of Somali living abroad has risen almost ten-fold. Only about 10 per cent of them, however, are living in developed countries, and many of those who had settled in the Arab peninsula have been expelled since 1991. As a result, financial flows to the Horn appear to have decreased by as much as one half. Despite its greater size, nowadays the Somali diaspora can seldom save more than 100 US dollars a month per household. They rely on welfare systems that only meet their most basic needs. The purpose of remittances has also changed. In the 1980s, according to observers’ estimates, twothirds of the funds from the Somali communities abroad were used for trade, and the other third to assist families. These proportions probably are now inverted. In Northwest Somalia, which has declared itself independent and taken the name of Somaliland, it has been suggested that funds sent by Somali abroad have increased the average annual incomes of households from 1,500 to 2,500 US dollars (Green 1999). Remittances to this region had been estimated at 150 million US dollars before the civil war (Piguet 1994). Another source of information on remittances is the hawilad working in the Gulf: free trade there makes concealment less of a necessity. Accountants at Tawfik’s, one of the main hawilad, say that 14 million US dollars are remitted via their office in Dubai, and 11 million US dollars via the Jeddah office. Barakat, another prominent hawilad, has a turnover above 100 million US dollars. Its officers in Jeddah and Dubai say that they reach about 200,000 persons a year. The Tawfik office in Jeddah processes as many as 350 cases a day, which amounts to about 100,000 transactions a year – though with many repetitions. The manager of the Tawfik agency in Dubai says that they have 2,000 regular customers and 4,000 irregular ones. It is conservatively estimated that each individual beneficiary of remittances provides for at least ten individuals in Somalia or Somaliland. The implication is that one office in the Gulf can provide for the needs of 60,000 Somali in the Horn. Given the number of offices in the Gulf, it does not seem unreasonable to suggest that up to one million may benefit directly or indirectly from remittances channelled via the hawilad system. This amounts to about one fifth of the population that has remained in Somalia.

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Conclusions In the West, the arrival of refugees is usually considered an extra burden on social assistance systems. A more relative view may, however, be appropriate in the Somali case. On the one hand, much of the money transferred by Somali exiles is derived from surplus social allowances, and one possible conclusion is that the welfare state in the West is overly generous. On the other hand, the essential role the hawilad play in the survival of Somalia is in fact a form of indirect assistance: the fact that it is run by Somali themselves entails reduced expenses for international and non-governmental organizations. Remittances also have important consequences for the diaspora, as they represent between 20 per cent and 30 per cent of many households’ income. Elders often exert pressure on the younger generation to send home remittances, even threatening to banish them from Somali society. Indeed, certain authors blame remittances for perpetuating a clan-based, segmented society (Piguet 1994). There are indications, however, that the younger generation may be increasingly immune to these sorts of threats. There is a tendency within the Somali diaspora away from extended and towards nuclear families. Younger Somali born in exile – tolow – appear to be developing a new, possibly ‘hybrid’ culture. As is shown to be the case for so many new African diasporas in this volume, the Somali diaspora too is evolving. The pattern of this evolution will depend on many factors, an important one being the policies and attitudes of host countries. Policies of assimilation in France are likely to have different outcomes from ‘multi-cultural’ policies in the USA or UK. The Somali of the diaspora have settled in too many different countries to allow generalizations to be made. Even amongst a people who share so many experiences, it may be more appropriate to speak of Somali diasporas in the plural.

Note 1 The field research was organized from Nairobi as part of a study programme by the Institut de Recherche pour le Développement (IRD) on refugees in Kenya. Research was conducted from 1997 to 1999 among Somalis living in East Africa, in the Arabian Peninsula, in Britain and in Canada.

References Affi, L., 1997, ‘The Somali Crisis in Canada: The Single Mother Phenomenon’, in Adam, H.M. and Ford, R. (ed.), Mending Rips in the Sky. Options for Somali Communities in the 21st Century, Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press.

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African Education Trust, 1996, Somalia Education Project: Feasibility Study, Nairobi: European Commission Somalia Unit. Angoustures, A. and Pascal, V., 1996, ‘Diasporas et financement des conflits’, in Jean, F. and Ruffin, C. (ed.), Économie des guerres civiles, Paris: Hachette Pluriel. Banton, M., 1955, The Coloured Quarter: Negro Immigrants in an English City, London: Cape. Birindelli, A.M. and Bonifazi, C. (ed.), 1993, Impact of Migration in the Receiving Countries: Italy, Geneva: IOM. Collins, S., 1957, Coloured Minorities in Britain, London: Butterworth. Dahya, B.U.D., 1965, ‘Yemenis in Britain: An Arab Migrant Community’, Race (London), 6, 3: 177–90. Djuve, A.B. and Hagen, K. 1997, Living Conditions among Refugee Immigrants in Oslo, Oslo: Institute for Applied Social Research, p.12. DRC (Danish Refugee Council), 1997, Legal and Social Conditions for Asylum Seekers and Refugees, Copenhagen: Danish Refugee Council. Duffield, I, 1993, ‘Skilled Workers or Marginalized Poor? The African Population of the United Kingdom, 1812–52’, Immigrants and Minorities 12, 3: 59–62. El-Solh, C.F., 1991, ‘Somalis in London’s East End: a community striving for recognition’, New Community, 17, 4: 539–52. El-Solh, Camilla Fawzi., 1993, ‘Be True to Your Culture: Gender Tensions Among Somali Muslims in Britain’, Immigrants and Minorities, 12, 1: 45. Green, Reginald Herbold., 1999, ‘Khatt and the Realities of Somalis: Historic, Social, Household, Political and Economic’, Review of African Political Economy, 26, 79: 39. Halliday, F., 1992, Arabs in Exile: Yemeni Migrants in Urban Britain, London: I.B. Tauris. Hussein, S., 1993, ‘Somalis in London’, in Merriman, N. (ed.) The Peopling of London, London: Museum of London, pp. 163–8. Ighodaro, M., 1997, Experience of Somali Students in Metro-Toronto School System, Toronto: York University. Jamal, V., 1992, ‘Somalia: The Gulf Link and Adjustment’, in Raffer, K. and Salih, Mohamed, M.A., The Least Developed and the Oil-Rich Arab Countries: Dependence, Interdependence or Patronage? Basingstoke: Macmillan. Jobs and Skills Programme for Africa, 1989, Generating Employment and Incomes in Somalia, Addis Abeba: International Labour Office. Karadawi, A., 1991, ‘The Smuggling of the Ethiopian Falashas to Israel through Sudan’, African Affairs, 70: 23–49. Kessler, D., 1985, The Falashas, The Forgotten Jews of Ethiopia, New York: Schocken Books. Kusow, A.M., 1998, Migration and Identity Processes among Somali Immigrants in Canada, Detroit: Wayne State University, mimeo, p. 98. Little, K.A., 1947, Negroes in Britain: A study of Racial Relations in English Society, London: Kegan Paul. Mamdani, M., 1993, ‘The Ugandan Asian Expulsion: Twenty Years After’, Journal of Refugee Studies, 6, 3: 274–85.

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Middleton, D., 1994, The Somali Community in Cardiff, Cardiff: Save the Children Fund, mimeo, pp. 7 and 12. Minority Rights Group, 1991, Voices from Somalia, London: mimeo. Molteno, M., 1992, A Shield of Coolest Air, London: Shola Books. Omar, M.O., 1992, The Road to Zero. Somalia’s Self Destruction. Personal Reminiscences, London: Haan. Opoku-Dapaah, E., 1995, Somali Refugees in Toronto, A Profile, Toronto: York University, Centre for Refugee Studies, p. 2. Parfitt, T. and Trevisan Semi, E., (ed.), 1999, The Beta Israel in Ethioopia and Israel. Studies on the Ethiopian Jews, Surrey: Curzon. Patterson, S., 1963, Dark Strangers: A Sociological Study of the Absorption of a Recent West Indian Migrant in Brixton, South London, London: Tavistock. Piguet, F., 1994, ‘Les filières des migrants et réfugiés du Somaliland’ in Bocco, R. and Djalili, M.R. (eds): Moyen Orient: migrations, démocratisations, médiations, Paris: PUF, p. 56. Robinson, V., 1993, ‘Marching into the Middle Classes? The Long-term Resettlement of East African Asians in the UK’, Journal of Refugee Studies, 6, 3: 230–47. Serjeant, R.B., 1944, ‘Yemeni Arabs in Britain’. The Geographical Magazine, 17, 4: 143–7. Sherwood, M., 1991, ‘Racism and Resistance: Cardiff in the 1930s and 1940s’, Llafur, 5, 4: 63–5. Turton, E.R., 1974, ‘The Isaq Somali Diaspora and Poll Tax Agitation in Kenya, 1936–1941’, African Affairs (London), 73, 292: 335. UDI, 1999, Årsrapport 1998, Oslo: Utlendingsdirektoratet, p. 40. UNHCR, 1994, ‘Background Paper on Somali Refugees and Asylum Seekers’, Geneva: Centre for Documentation and Research, mimeo. Utteh, H.A., 1997, ‘The Plight of Somali Refugees in Europe, With Particular Reference to Germany (1993)’, in Adam, H.M. and Ford, R. (eds), Mending Rips in the Sky. Options for Somali Communities in the 21st Century, Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press. Westheimer, R. and Kaplan, S., 1992, Surviving Salvation: The Ethiopian Jewish Family in Transition, New York: New York University Press.

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4 SCATTERED BELONGINGS Reconfiguring the ‘African’ in the English-African Diaspora1 Jayne O. Ifekwunigwe

We cannot escape our origins, however hard we try, those origins which contain the key – could we but find it – to all that we later become. (Baldwin 1955: 27)

‘Where are you from?’ On an empowered day, I describe myself as a diaspora(s) daughter with multiple migratory and ancestral points in Nigeria, Ireland, England, Guyana and the United States; on a disempowered day, I am a nationless nomad who wanders from destination to destination in search of a singular site to name as home. Until I completed the first phase of my Bristol-based ethnographic research on ‘mixed race’ identities, families and memories eight years ago, I was not mindful of the extent to which my split consciousness of ‘home’ – as both multi-sited imagined but not imaginary and territorialized as well as de-territorialized and thus portable – was a shared sentiment. However, after listening to and interpreting the oral testimonies of the sixteen women and nine men who had transnational and diasporic familial connections as complex as my own, I realized that the grand diasporic narratives of transatlantic slavery and/or (post)colonialism(s) could not completely name us or our family histories. As work in progress and as a contribution to this burgeoning long conversation about ‘new African diasporas’, this chapter problematizes the theoretical notion that a unitary formation known as the African diaspora exists (Schipper 1999).2 More specifically, I challenge essentialized ideas about an English-African diaspora, which I will refer to at 56

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length later, predicated on the idea that its constituents’ relationship to both England and continental Africa is based on the racialized binarisms of African diasporicity and English indigeneity. In addition, I suggest that we must acknowledge the existence of pan-African diasporic global networks (the mass media, information technology, mass communication, popular culture in the forms of fashion, hair, books, music, film, as well as inexpensive travel and telecommunications), which are constantly redefining not only diasporic subjectivities but also continental African social identities (Mustafa 1998; Biaya 1998). In other words, the theories and practices of lived transnational (English-) African diasporic realities are more fragmented, layered and fluid than the localised push/pull margin to centre discourses of migration suggest (Barber and Waterman 1995; Carter 1997).

No fixed address An important and ongoing debate among historians provides the conceptual backdrop for my discussion (Bernal 1991; Lefkowitz 1996). That is, certain scholars have challenged the widely held belief that it was the dispersal of continental Africans during the transatlantic slave trade which created the first and only significant African diasporic rupture. Although arguably the most socially and culturally disruptive, the forced migration of continental Africans for the purposes of labour exploitation was not the first African diaspora. Cheik Anta Diop (1990), Ivan Van Sertima (1976) and Runoko Rashidi (1992) among other revisionist scholars have provided historical and archaeological evidence that continental Africans circumnavigated the globe – the New World in general and the Americas in particular – many centuries before the celebrated journey of Christopher Columbus among other explorers. That is, from the Egyptians, to the Ethiopians, to the Phoenicians, to the Moors, to the Mandingo mariners, Africans have always been migratory and thus hybridized people (Drake 1987; Drake 1990). Hence, I advocate the more historically accurate marking of moments of rupture in terms of what I call pre-Colombian and post-Colombian African diaspora(s). In Before the Mayflower, historian Lerone Bennet maps the cartographies of the pre-Colombian African diaspora: During the early Christian era, blacks were scattered to the four corners of the world. For many centuries, black merchants traded with India, China and Europe. Other blacks were sold as slaves in Europe and Asia. By the beginning of the Islamic era, blacks – as merchants and merchandise – had integrated 57

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Europe, Asia and the Far East. By that time, blacks were well known in Venice in Europe and in the deserts of Arabia. (1984: 12) In Global Diasporas, Cohen (1997) also acknowledges the ancient African migrations which led to a sustained African presence in Asia, the Middle East and Europe. However, he still designates the forced dispersal of Africans as cargo during the transatlantic slave trade as the pivotal African diaspora, which I rename the post-Colombian African diaspora: . . . although many Africans are found in Asia and the Middle East [and I add Europe], the forcible transhipment of ten million people across the Atlantic for mass slavery and coerced plantation labour in the Americas provided the defining and constituent elements of the African diaspora. (Cohen 1997: 27) Re-historicizing pre-Colombian and post-Colombian (locus classicus) African diaspora(s) in turn paves the way for re-conceptualizations of the contemporary African diaspora(s) of European colonialism(s) and (post)colonialism(s) (Mazrui 1986). In other words, pre-colonial, colonial and (post)colonial continental African cultures and their African diasporic extensions have been crafted and are constantly being reinvented by the same historical and geopolitical processes (Appiah 1992; Mudimbe 1988; Mudimbe 1994). By both establishing historical, cultural and social continuities and demarcating territorial distinctions which divide and connect ancient and modern children of African diaspora(s) in their multiple evolving formations, we can untangle the hairs of history and demonstrate the ways in which the past is still stained on our psyches (Harrison 1997). What is generated is a marketable millennial cultural currency from the embrace of a pan-African diasporic consciousness which re-casts our re-current homelessness as an asset rather than a deficit (Ogundipe-Leslie 1994; Steady 1996). Across continua of time and space, ‘new’ African diasporas(s) are dynamic, interlocking and interdependent global networks of geopolitical spheres each of whose localized constituencies are also sensitive to and impacted by the particular nation-states of which they are a part, i.e. the French-African diaspora, the BrazilianAfrican diaspora, the Canadian-African diaspora, the American-African diaspora, the English-African diaspora and so on. Each of the African diaspora communities has common cultural roots emanating from the African continent (Herskovits 1958; Bascom and Herskovits 1959). 58

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However, these geographical and cultural groupings represent diverse outcomes to a common heritage of slavery, colonialism and racism (Segal 1995). These differences must be located in appropriate historical, social, cultural and political contexts that do not erupt simply in either/or, margin to centre, push/pull dichotomies. For example, Paul Gilroy (1993) ‘heuristically’ configures ‘the black Atlantic ‘ as a ‘transcultural, international formation’ which links the lived experiences, political projects and cultural products of ‘Black Britons’ and Black Americans. My reconceptualization of the African diaspora(s) in general, and the English-African diaspora in particular, also conveys a broader collective pan-African diasporic consciousness (Brown 1998; Hesse 2000). This is forged from different lived outcomes to similar post-slavery and post-colonial social, historical and economic legacies such as underdevelopment, globalization, institutionalized racism, sexism and class discrimination (Lemelle and Kelley 1994; Marable 1987). In the language of transnationalism(s) and globalization, Peters (1982) as invoked by Gupta and Ferguson (1999) would describe these local/global pan-African diasporic formations as ‘bifocal’, ‘in which social actors simultaneously experience the local and the global, possessing both “near-sight” and “far-sight” ’ (1999: 9). Within the framework of bifocality, conceptions of the local and the global are themselves dynamic. As Hannerz observes: Africans . . . in Europe and North America are usually considered in social science research only as immigrants to the metropoles. Simultaneously, however, they form extensions of their home societies, of which they often remain active members. In this way, London, Paris, Brussels . . . are among the major Third World cities, and a varied cultural flow passes from them through the networks of migrant workers, students, exiles, international petty entrepreneurs and tourists. (1997: 13) Forget you are African, remember you are Black: on ‘dis-Africanization’ in the diaspora3 As Mazrui (1986) reminds us, the pervasive adversary of bi-focal panAfrican diasporic consciousness and its self-defining and self-constructing political and aesthetic predecessors such as Garveyism, the Harlem Renaissance, the Negritude Movement, pan-Africanism, the Civil Rights Movement and the Black Power Movement is the spectre of ‘race’ (Green 1997). Whether the territorial context is Europe, the United Kingdom or 59

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the United States what I refer to as the popular folk concept of ‘race’ – as it pertains to social constructions of Blackness and Whiteness – inform and impede the collective and personal projects of African diasporic identities formation. The popular folk concept of ‘race’ is a potent dynamic social and cultural imaginary, the naturalization of which attaches symbolic meanings to real or manufactured physical differences. These create, explain, justify and maintain social inequalities and injustices, and perpetuate differential access to privilege, prestige and power. Hence, in this analysis, my intention is to illustrate in the African diaspora(s) in general and the English-African diaspora in particular, the interplays of ‘race’, as a primary identity marker, with other hierarchically positioned signifiers such as language, multi-ethnicity, locality, generation, gender and social class.

Indigeneity, normalized whiteness and Englishness Belonging in England is determined as much by social exclusion as by inclusion. That is, the notion of Englishness was and still is based on the mythologies of indigeneity and ‘racial’ purity. For example, Catherine Hall defines Englishness as: not a fixed identity, but a series of contested identities, a terrain of struggle . . . Englishness is defined through the creation of an imagined community: who is ‘one of us’ . . . is quite as important in that definition as who is excluded. For the imagined community is built on a series of assumptions about ‘others’ which define the nature of Englishness itself. (1992: 26) Although Hall describes Englishness as an ethnic designation, she also acknowledges that one of the primary criteria for determining English membership is in fact ‘racial’. In other words, to be English is to be White. Whiteness is the given, normative, naturalized, privileged and thus the template category by which all other racialized ‘deviations’ are measured. Yet, not all socially designated Whites are English nor are all English socially designated non-Black. The shifting racialized position of the Irish from the nineteenth to the twenty-first century is an interesting illustration of the conflation of ‘race’ and ethnicity in dynamic constructions of insider/outsider status in England (Gibbons 1996; Gray 1997; Ignatiev 1995). However, though the maintenance of privilege and power may be the universal logic underpinning ‘racial’ ideology, local meanings of 60

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Blackness and Whiteness do not travel easily. For example, in Britain, the social and political category Black incorporates South Asian, Chinese and in certain instances Irish communities. Nevertheless, in Britain, there is by no means a consensus regarding the inclusivity of the designation Black. In fact, certain sectors of the religiously and ethnically diverse Asian communities have rejected Black affiliation in favour of a British/ Asian identification. On the other hand, in the United States, Black refers primarily to individuals of African descent. In both the United States and Britain, I have defined bi-racialization as a process which dictates the specific structural, symbolic and oppositional relationships forged between people deemed White and those socially designated as Black. As a substructure of the concept of racialization, bi-racialization highlights the dominance of Black/White discourses on ‘race’, i.e. one is either Black or White and never the twain shall meet. This binarism of ‘race’ poses significant political and personal challenges for individuals who identify as ‘mixed race’.4

Diasporicity, essentialized Blackness and the English-African diaspora I searched but could not find myself, not on the screen, billboards, books, magazines, and first and last not in the mirror . . . I longed for an image, a story, to speak me, describe me, birth me whole. Living in my skin, I was, but which one? (Evaristo 1997: 69) Of Nigerian and English parentage, Evaristo laments what another Nigerian and English writer, Adewale Maja-Pearce, refers to as ‘the halflife of the outsider’ (Maja-Pearce 1990). Evaristo, Maja-Pearce, as well as the twenty-five individuals with whom I spoke, descend from lineages which cut across so-called differently configured and gendered Black/ White ‘races’ and, by extension, ethnicities, cultures and classes. Yet, unlike the citizen children of immigrant parents to whom, in his ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech, Enoch Powell (1969) denied English membership, by virtue of parentage, ‘mixed race’ citizens can claim both indigenous and diasporic roots or what Avtar Brah would refer to as ‘diaspora space’: ‘the entanglement of genealogies of dispersion with those of “staying put”’ (1996: 181). In simple terms, they are White English and Black English-African diasporic. However, two dominant and competing public discourses on nationalisms impede joint insider/outsider private identifications. Both 61

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link sociocultural constructions of ‘race’ to an ongoing political project demarcating the boundaries of belonging. I have already mentioned the first, which is the notion that Englishness is synonymous with mythically pure Whiteness and an ancestral claim to territory. The second is based on the ways in which as both alleged deviation and resistance strategy the designation Black is associated with social and geographical misplacement as well as resilience. Borrowing from the seminal essay ‘Unfinished Migrations: Reflections on the African diaspora and the Making of the Modern World’, coauthored by historians Patterson and Kelley (2000), I refer to the EnglishAfrican diaspora not simply as a bi-racialized political space but also as a process and a condition. That is, first, contemporary English-African diasporic processes extend the links of the migration chains which originated in the historical moments of the transatlantic slave trade and the British Empire: ‘We are here because you were there.’ or ‘We are here because you took us there.’ Second, the contemporary English-African diaspora spatially comprises African (post)colonial and transnational constituents from the Caribbean, North (and Latin America), and continental Africa and their descendants who find themselves in England for labour, schooling, political asylum, and frequently by birth. Their spatial and ‘racial’ locations as both gendered English-African diasporic agents and former British Black colonial, tribal and island subjects inscribe sameness as they mobilize and politicize (Adi 2000). Finally, English-African diasporic conditions persist and are transformed by the interface of transnational African diasporic traditions of resistance, protest and cultural innovation with global economic, political gendered and racialized hierarchical structures which exclude as they appropriate and commodify. As previously mentioned, this contemporary formulation is derived from a re-assessment of the African diaspora, in its conventional, historical, static and monolithic formation, as the first and only major dispersal of continental Africans during the transatlantic slave trade.

Scattered belongings The private and local family histories of most (post)colonial subjects are crafted from the public and global remains of slavery and imperialism as they are manifest in ‘inter-racial’, gender, sexual and economic relations (Hyam 1990; Young 1995), Accordingly, in a genealogical sense, there are very few constituents of the African diaspora(s) who could not claim ‘mixed race’ ancestry (Rogers 1944; Rogers 1958). However, here I am concerned with first generation ‘mixed race’ individuals who, according 62

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to the popular folk concept of ‘race’, have immediate birth parentage which is recognized as Black and White. Hence, neither the exclusionary discourse of White Englishness nor the inclusive discourse of the Black English-African diaspora completely represents their everyday lived realities. Designated Black/White parentage and English/EnglishAfrican diasporic upbringings position them at complex and specific multiethnic, multicultural, multiracial and transnational intersections. My ongoing research focuses on this particular paradox of belonging. The research was conducted over a two year period in Bristol, England, and consisted of a series of open-ended audiotaped interviews. Participation in this project consisted of respondents providing me with a series of tape-recorded testimonies about their childhood, gender politics, racial and ethnic identity, class background, nationalism, family, sexuality, creativity, parenting and racism among a variety of organic topics. I bonded with all twenty-five project participants to such an extent that as an outside-insider my daily challenge was maintaining those elusive ‘objective’ boundaries (Minh-ha 1990; Powdermaker 1966). After completing the interviews and while writing various versions of the ethnography, I oscillated between two positions and sat comfortably in neither. On the one hand, as the conduit for these stories, I was forced to make both general editorial decisions about which of the twenty-five testimonies would be included as well as specific selections of raw materials from these reconstructed lives. On the other hand, I could not justify presenting the narratives as mere anthropological ‘data’ wherein extracts of life experiences are cut and pasted for the primary purpose of authenticating the authority of the researcher. With the latter traditional approach, we learn more about the particular biases of the anthropologist and less about the lived realities of the respondents (Rosaldo 1989; Wolf 1992). The testimonies I heard challenged my alleged sovereignty as social scientific mediator. I now wanted to produce a coherent final product that neither fragmented nor trivialized the lived experiences of the individuals with whom I had worked. In the end, it was the centrality of kin in the retelling of all of their life stories which led me to focus in detail on the different pathways to womanhood forged by just six women – two sets of women growing up in the same family – as well as two women who create family within the contexts of children’s homes.5 Collectively, the six narratives illustrate the ways in which at different life stages and across age, class, gender, ethnicity and locality, ‘mixed race’ subjects construct integrated senses of self, family, and community which both encompass and transcend conventional, exclusive and hierarchical Black/White, English/EnglishAfrican diasporic subject positions. 63

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Of the six women featured in Scattered Belongings (Ifekwunigwe 1999), I felt the most kinship with Bisi and Yemi, two sisters with a Nigerian (Yoruba) father and an English (Northumberland) mother. Bisi and Yemi were brought up with both parents and their older sister Kemi in a middle-class household in Ibadan, Nigeria. I am certain that my attachment to them stemmed from my desire to reconstruct my own early childhood in Ibadan, which was interrupted by the Biafran War. Although it is quite possible that we would have eventually met each other – both our fathers were affiliated with the University of Ibadan – the sad fact is that our different tribal allegiances (mine Igbo, theirs Yoruba) would have made sustained friendship virtually impossible. Not long after the outbreak of the war, we were forced to flee Ibadan, Western Nigeria, which was predominantly Yoruba, for the temporary safety of my grandfather’s village in Onitsha, Eastern Nigeria, which was mainly Igbo. Multiple migrations and more than thirty years later, Bisi, Yemi and I are all living in England now wherein Nigerian-ness is defined as much by its shifting and situational racialized, diasporic and transnational configurations than by any tangible territorialized sense of either continental Africa or multi-ethnic Nigeria in all their fragmented and contradictory heterogeneity.

Writing home I had to learn as best I could to be at home, but even the word ‘home’ had complex connotations. Where was home? Was it Nigeria, my father’s country? Or was it Britain, my mother’s country? And how far did allegiance to the one involve a betrayal of the other? (Maja-Pearce 1990: 12–13) Maja-Pearce wages existential war with the meaning of ‘home’ as it is experienced as competing and conflicting bi-racialized nationalisms. In so doing he articulates the complex nature of naming ‘home’ for transnational ‘mixed race’ subjects such as Bisi. Bisi At the age of eighteen Bisi moved from Nigeria to England to study art. She became an accomplished visual artist, is married to an Englishman and is the mother of three daughters and a son. Her reconciled reflections highlight the situational dimensions of belonging as well as the important role mothers play as the bearers of culture: 64

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If you’re a mixed race child growing up in an African country, you are told in no uncertain terms that you are White. White is what you are and will remain, and there is nothing you can do about it. It doesn’t matter, even if you did speak the language, even if you did wear the right clothes, even if you had nothing distinguishing you culturally – you still know very well that White is what you are. Whereas coming to terms with a Black identity in Bristol. You have a lot of things within you to cope with. One of the things you have as a coping mechanism is your identity as a member of a family, as a child of a family, who has been given a name more or less by the head of the family. You have a place there. You have that, which is actually not a part of your racial identity . . . Sometimes when you talk about being Black it’s directly in opposition in a sense to being White. I didn’t have that. I had the knowledge of my family name. I’m a member of the family. I look like my father. I’m half-African and half – do I say English? Or rather half-Northumberland, ‘cos that’s also quite a specific culture, which I didn’t and really probably still don’t know that much about. Bisi’s sentiments illustrate the complexity and the fluidity of identity formation in situational racialized contexts. Her testimony also demonstrates a critical consciousness of the ways in which White English maternal culture was privileged both in her Nigerian household and in Nigerian middle-class society writ large. By owning these English influences she is able to clear space for the rediscovery of what she has taken from Nigeria. What she has retrieved is most visible in the art she creates, which she describes as ‘a new artistic impasse’ . . . ‘it is not static . . . it absorbs new ideas’. Her evolving narrative conveys a broader collective pan-African diasporic project which relocates discourses of belonging within the unbounded and dynamic milieux of boundary crossings, translations, reinterpretations and of course innovations. Yemi However, lest we forget, Bisi’s sister Yemi reminds us of the other side of the equation. That is, with global capitalism as a contemporary catalyst, there is and always has been a concurrent relationship between cultural production and social transformation in the African diaspora(s) in general, the American-African diaspora in particular and their metropolitan equivalents on the continent (Barber 1997). Although some of the 65

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African-American stereotypes Yemi puts forward are problematic, I would still argue that what she articulates is an emergent African diasporic consciousness and sensibility: I had a Black American friend in college, who was quite dark . . . he looked a bit like a Yoruba boy. His name was Anthony and he had a friend, William. William looked like a half-caste; he was tall, had an afro and was yellowish. He was really tall and slender, like a basketball player. Anthony was short and squat and muscular like abekiti man. Like a farmer’s muscles on his legs. They call it ishu-yams. He and William would go to the market. They’d be asking ‘How much is this? How much is that?’ and asking questions – like tourists or Americans would do in a market situation in Africa. ‘Mama, how much is this one?’ The market women would be abusing Anthony. ‘You stupid boy, because you are with this Negro’ – they called Black Americans Negroes then – ‘You are pretending you don’t speak your language any more. You useless boy! Speak to us in Yoruba.’ Anthony would almost be in tears, ‘Mama, I’m from America.’ ‘You see, you useless boy!’ Whereas, William was okay, because William obviously was not a typical Yoruba boy. But, poor Anthony. We’re talking about the early seventies. This great balloon of Black consciousness. So, they would wear tie-dyed shirts or something like that to the market instead of American clothes and have maybe leather bags – you know, proper African sort of thing. There’s Anthony trying really hard to look like an African, but unfortunately the women think that he is one!

In the twenty-first century, what distinguishes the continental African from the diasporic African? Like Yemi, almost all of the project participants seemed to have some awareness of the Black Power Movement in the United States and its global impact on people of colour in general and Black people in particular. What this shared consciousness suggests is the importance of viewing identities construction as dynamic and historically contextualized and thus cyclical rather than static and ahistorical. Hence, cultural identities whether ‘African’ or ‘African diasporic’ are all part of the same unfinished ‘big story’. That is, historical and contemporary narratives of continental Africa and its diaspora(s), in all their dynamic heterogeneity 66

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and complexity, have always been intertwined. This socially, culturally and politically transformative nexus is more apparent with the recent scattering across Europe, the United States and Canada of political asylum seekers/refugees and economic migrants from continental Africa. Therefore, the challenge facing multidisciplinary scholars of ‘new’ African diaspora(s) conducting empirical, comparative, theoretical and historically informed research is how do we reconcile and accommodate these interminglings, divergent processes and convergent conditions?

Acknowledgements I extend boundless gratitude to the sixteen women and nine men in Bristol without whose courage and honesty this ongoing organic project could not take flight. Many thanks also to Khalid Koser who provided the necessary context for critical exploration and dialogue.

Notes 1 This is an updated and revised version of a chapter that was published in Owusu, K. (ed.), 2000, Black British Culture and Society, London: Routledge, pp. 489–98. 2 For discursive purposes, diaspora is either the temporal (pre-Colombian, postColombian, contemporary or ‘new’) or the localized/spatialized (EnglishAfrican diaspora, Brazilian-African diaspora, etc.) version, while diaspora is the adjectival form. 3 Mazrui, Ali, 1986, The Africans: A Triple Heritage, Boston: Little Brown and Company, p. 302. 4 To be ‘mixed race’ presumes differently racialized parentage. Therefore, for purposes of critical discussion, here I use the term ‘mixed race’ to describe individuals who according to popular folk concepts of ‘race’ and by known birth parentage embody two or more world views or in genealogical terms, descent groups. These individuals may have physical characteristics that reflect some sort of ‘intermediate’ status vis-á-vis their birth parents. More than likely, at some stage, they will have to reconcile multiple cultural influences. The degree of agency afforded a ‘mixed race’ individual is contingent in part upon local folk ‘readings of their phenotype’ in relation to systems of categorization and classification that may reinforce eighteenth- and nineteenth-century ‘race’ science fiction. By phenotype, I mean the visible physical markers of genetically inherited traits such as skin colour, hair texture and colour, eye shape and colour, general facial features, and body structure. In addition to the social meanings of phenotype, social class, gender, generation and locality are also important variables. It is contradictory racialized perceptions of physical differences that frequently determine and undermine the lived experiences of those who, as active agents, identify as and/or are socially designated as ‘mixed race’. These social applications of the term ‘mixed race’ highlight the paradoxes of kin and colour and pinpoint the problems of reinscribing a term predicated on the bases of scientifically dubious criteria.

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5

For an in-depth rationale for the whittling down process in particular and the research methodology in general see Ifekwunigwe, J.O., 1999, ‘Setting the Stage’, in Scattered Belongings: Cultural Paradoxes of ‘Race’, Nation and Gender, London: Routledge, pp. 50–61.

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Green, Charles (ed.), 1997, Globalization and Survival in the Black Diaspora, Albany, NY: State University of New York. Gupta, Akhil, and Ferguson, James, 1999, ‘Culture, Power, Place: Ethnography at the End of an Era’, in Gupta, A. and Ferguson, J. (eds) 1999, Culture, Power, Place: Explorations in Critical Anthropology, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, pp. 1–32. Hall, Catherine, 1992 White, Male and Middle Class, Cambridge: Polity Press. Hannerz, Ulf, 1997, ‘The World in Creolization’, in Barber, K. (ed.) African Popular Culture, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, pp. 12–17. Harrison, Faye (ed.), 1997, Decolonising Anthropology: Moving Further Toward an Anthropology of Liberation, second edition, Arlington, VA: Association of Black Anthropologists, American Anthropological Association. Herskovits, Melville, 1958, The Myth of the Negro Past, Boston: Beacon Press. Hesse, Barnor, 2000, ‘Diasporicity: Black Britain’s Post-Colonial Formations’, in Hesse, B. (ed.) Un/Settled Multiculturalisms: Diasporas, Entanglements, Disruptions, London: Zed, pp. 128–65. Hyam, Ronald, 1990, Empire and Sexuality: The British Experience, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Ifekwunigwe, Jayne O., 1999, Scattered Belongings: Cultural Paradoxes of ‘Race’, Nation and Gender, London: Routledge. Ignatiev, Noel, 1995, How the Irish Became White, London: Routledge. Lefkowitz, Mary, 1996, Not Out of Africa: How Afrocentrism Became an Excuse to Teach Myth as History, New York: Basic Books. Lemelle, Sidney, and Kelley, Robin (eds), 1994, Imagining Home: Class, Culture and Nationalism in the African Diaspora, London: Verso. Maja-Pearce, Adewale, 1990, How Many Miles to Babylon? London: Heinemann. Marable, Manning, 1987, African and Caribbean Politics, London: Verso. Mazrui, Ali, 1986, The Africans: A Triple Heritage, Boston: Little Brown and Company. Minh-ha, Trinh T., 1990, ‘Not You/Like You: Post-Colonial Women and the Interlocking Questions of Identity and Difference’ in Anzaldua, G. (ed.) Making Face, Making Soul, San Francisco, CA: Aunt Lute Press. Mudimbe, V.Y., 1988, The Invention of Africa: Gnosis, Philosophy and the Order of Knowledge, London: James Currey. Mudimbe, V.Y., 1994, The Idea of Africa, London: James Currey. Mustafa, Hudita N., 1998, ‘Sartorial Ecumenes: African Styles in a Social and Economic Context’, in Van Der Plas, E. and Willemsen, M. (eds) The Art of African Fashion, Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, pp.13–48. Ogundipe-Leslie, Molara, 1994, Re-Creating Ourselves: African Women and Critical Transformations, Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press. Patterson, Tiffany Ruby, and Kelley, Robin, 2000, ‘Unfinished Migrations: Reflections on the African Diaspora and the Making of the Modern World’, African Studies Review, 43, 1: 11–46. Peters, Thomas, 1982, In Search of Excellence, New York: Warner. Powdermaker, Hortense, 1966, Stranger and a Friend, New York: W.W.Norton.

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Powell, Enoch, 1969, Freedom and Reality, Kingswood, Surrey: Elliot Right Way Books. Rashidi, Runoko, 1992, Introduction to the Study of African Classical Civilisations, London: Karnak House. Rogers, J.A., 1944, Sex and Race, vol. 3, St Petersburg, FL: Helga Rogers. Rogers, J.A., 1958, Nature Knows no Color Line, St Petersburg, FL: Helga Rogers. Rosaldo, Renato, 1989, Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis, Boston: Beacon Press. Schipper, Mineke, 1999, Imagining Insiders: Africa and the Question of Belonging, London: Cassell. Segal, Ronald, 1995, The Black Diaspora, London: Faber and Faber. Steady, Filomina, 1996, ‘African Feminism: A Worldwide Perspective’, in Terborg-Penn, R. and Benton Rushing, A. (eds) Women in Africa and the African Diaspora, Second Edition, Washington, DC: Howard University Press. Van Sertima, Ivan, 1976, They Came Before Columbus, New York: Random House. Waterman, C.A., 1997, ‘Our Tradition is a Very Modern Tradition: Popular Music and the Construction of Pan-Yoruba Identity’, in Barber, K. (ed.) African Popular Culture, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, pp. 48–53. Wolf, Margery, 1992, A Thrice Told Tale: Feminism, Postmodernism and Ethnographic Responsibility, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Young, Robert, 1995, Colonial Desire, London: Routledge.

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5 MARKETING AFROCENTRICITY West African Trade Networks in North America Paul Stoller

Marketing Afrocentricity One morning in July 1993, Boubé Mounkaila and Sala Fari parked their Econoline van on 125th Street just opposite the Carver State Bank, which is perhaps 100 meters from the cultural crossroads of Harlem: 125th Street and Lenox Avenue. They hadn’t put much mileage on the van because they used it exclusively to store inventory. Each morning they unloaded their wares and set up their display on rickety aluminium tables; each evening they folded their tables, packed up the van and parked it in a 125th Street garage. That morning Sala, dressed in baggy blue jeans, black tennis shoes, a plain white tee shirt, a denim vest and a New York Yankees baseball cap, arranged on his table a variety of men’s and women’s straw hats, which he sold for between US$5.00 and US$10.00. Boubé wore black jeans and a black tee shirt that had an image of a homeboy on it – a young African American male dressed in baggy jeans, tennis shoes and a baseball cap worn sideways. The shirt listed seven major African American Universities and spelled out in large red letters, ‘It’s a Black Thang.’ Put together much like the homeboy depicted on his tee shirt, Boubé arranged sets of Nigerien leather purses and bags, his primary product, as well as baseball caps. Many of the baseball caps carried the logos of professional and college sports teams. ‘Georgetown Hoyas sells well,’ he said. ‘So do the Chicago Bulls and the New York Yankees.’ I also noticed that he had several caps that spelled out Harlem, another several with two men shaking hands that spelled out ‘Brother to Brother.’ Finally, I noticed a new item: black baseball caps inscribed with 71

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a large silver ‘X,’ which, of course, represented Malcolm X. I asked Boubé about the Malcolm X caps. ‘They sell well,’ he said. ‘They have put “X” on everything.’ He pointed to another table close by that featured ‘X’ tee shirts and sweatshirts. Boubé admitted that he didn’t know too much about Malcolm X. He had heard that Malcolm X had preached on the streets of Harlem and that he founded the Mosque on 116th Street and Lenox and that he had been assassinated. ‘They have a good halal [Muslim] butcher,’ he said, ‘at his 116th Street Mosque. That’s where I buy my meat. I also go to that mosque for Jummah [Friday/Sabbath] prayers.’ ‘Where do you get the caps?’ I asked him. ‘I have two kinds of caps: original and copy. Originals come from Spike Lee. Copies come from Koreans off Broadway.’ Boubé continued to arrange his baseball caps. ‘Right now many freres [‘brothers,’ meaning fellow Africans] are selling “X” and many people here are buying and wearing it.’1 *** For centuries Hausa, Wolof and Sonnike/Malinke merchants, who are known as the professional traders of Africa (see Hopkins 1983), have established long-distance networks to facilitate commerce. In West Africa, Sonnike merchants tended to be mobile; they established client relationships along caravan routes. Hausa traders tended to establish satellite communities of their people along major trade routes. As in any system of long-distance trade, merchants created a set of trade practices that reinforced mutual trust, minimized the risk of loss and maximized profits. For most West African traders, moreover, these economic practices have also been shaped by Islam, which has an explicit set of principles that govern commercial transactions. Since 1990 thousands of West African traders, most of whom, like the West African professional merchants of the past, are Hausa, Sonnike/ Malinke, or Wolof, have come to trade in North America. Using New York City as a base of operations, these entrepreneurs have set up North American trade networks the workings of which are fundamentally based upon the time-honoured practices of their forebears. Like Boubé Mounkaila, they have become partners in contemporary North American networks to market Afrocentricity. In this chapter, which is based on fieldwork in New York City between 1992 and 1998, I explore the relationship among Afrocentricity, the West African simulation of an imagined Africa, and the operation of West Africa trade networks in North America.

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Afrocentricity Like many West African traders in New York City, Boubé Mounkaila quickly realized that Malcolm X is one of the principal icons of Afrocentrism. For Molefi Asante, the central figure in the Afrocentric movement, Malcolm X is an icon of African culture. Malcolm’s view of culture was centred principally on an Afrocentric foundation. He did not assert the development of national culture as a result of economic necessity. He neither tried to prove nor would he have been so inclined to prove that historical events were always caused by economic necessity. In reality, Malcolm was an astute observer of the historical conditions of African Americans and he saw that in the serious reconstruction of African culture, the struggle for power and the ability to create categories which are accepted by others frequently played a much more important role than economic necessity. Beyond this, however, was his insistence on African cultural autonomy by which he meant all things considered cosmological, axiological, epistemological and aesthetical. Given such autonomy it was possible to imagine a culture of resistance as well as a reconstructive culture. . . . (Asante 1993: 29) For Boubé Mounkaila, the significance of Malcolm X is more mercenary than political. In fact, ‘X’, which stands for Malcolm Little’s lost African identity, is for Boubé and his friends a polysymous symbol of major cultural consequence. Like several of his colleagues in Harlem, Boubé is Songhay. Among the Songhay people of Niger ‘X’ marks a spot in Songhay ritual: it is one sign for a crossroads and considered a point of power in the Songhay cosmos. It marks the spot of sacrifice during spirit possession and is articulated as a target for power in sorcerers’ rites. In these ceremonies, deities occupying the bodies of human mediums draw an ‘X’ on the sand dance grounds. This symbol marks the point where the priest will slit a chicken or goat’s throat. Blood soaks into the earth where X marks the spot; it nourishes the land and makes it fertile for planting. In Songhay sorcerers’ rites ‘X’ also serves as a point of articulation. When sorcerers prepare kusu, the food of power, they mark an ‘X’ on the dirt floor of their huts where a clay pot will sit. Only then will power infuse the millet paste and enable it to do its work – to make one impervious to sorcerous attack, and reinforce the sorcerer’s embodied integrity (see Coombe and Stoller 1994: 258; Stoller 1989). 73

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In North America, however, the significant religious contours of ‘X’ are eclipsed by the symbols’ economic potential. In fact, ‘X’ marks one of the largest merchandising agreements and most controversial marketing campaigns in twentieth-century North America. As a consequence, the image, likeness, names, and meaning of Malcolm X has been an ongoing arena of political and legal controversy. The choice of Spike Lee to direct a film about the martyred black nationalist sparked ongoing disputes about Malcolm X’s legacy; it also marshalled forces that promoted the commodification of his persona. The late Dr Betty Shabazz, Malcolm X’s widow, fought the first round of legal battles with a copyright infringement suit against publishers of the book Malcolm X for Beginners. Opponents accused Shabazz of violating her late husband’s code of ethics by prohibiting wider access to Malcolm X’s progressive ideas. For her part, Shabazz downplayed her financial interest and stressed her copyright as the proper guardian of Malcolm X’s legacy. When publicity for Spike Lee’s Warner Brothers film increased the value of Malcolm’s persona, she began to assert her proprietary rights (Coombe and Stoller 1994: 261–2). In 1992 Forbes Magazine claimed that ‘[R]etail sales of licensed Malcolm X products, all emblazoned with a large “X” could reach US$100 million this year. (The estate would then collect US$3 million in royalties)’ (Sullivan 1992: 136) A licensing manager was hired when all assortments of unlicensed X merchandise – even Malcolm X potato chips – began to appear on the streets of New York and other North American cities. By October of 1992, thirty-five licensees had signed contracts, and seventy more were negotiating contracts (ibid.: 136) Of these negotiations, that of Spike Lee’s corporation, Forty Acres and a Mule, the efforts of which had initiated the retail trade, turned out to be the most drawn out. Lawyers for the Malcolm X estate described his use of X as a blatant trademark infringement. This charge, triggered perhaps by a 1992 estimate of some US$20 million in sales of unlicensed ‘X’ merchandise, complicated the negotiations and set the stage for a settlement. The negotiations entailed dozens of interested parties and a legion of attorneys who worked out the details of copyright, trademark, publicity and merchandising rights to the iconographic presence of Malcolm X. Eventually these were multiplied, divided up, and licensed out (Coombe and Stoller 1994: 262) This licensing, of course, did not prevent trade in counterfeit Malcolm X goods. Indeed, West African merchants like Boubé Mounkaila bought and sold ‘originals and copies’ of ‘X.’ Most of his customers, Boubé admitted, couldn’t tell the difference between the two – ‘except in the price’ (ibid.: 262). The commercialization of Malcolm X’s persona is one example of how elements of Afrocentrism have been commodified and marketed in North America by African Americans as well as West Africans. For Asante and 74

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other scholars this trend may well be disturbing, for it transfers the force of Afrocentrism from the reconstruction of a historically profound Afrocentric culture among African Americans to the commodification of increasingly diluted Afrocentric symbols in the commercial mainstream of North American social life. As a consequence, the essential components of Afrocentrism are sometimes lost amid commodification’s hype and hoopla. Afrocentrism is a philosophically specific orientation to African and African American sociocultural life; it is a serious attempt to construct an epistemology based upon principles of African philosophy, principles which, according to Molefi Asante, protect scholars from making interpretive errors – about African and African American sociocultural life – that devolve from Eurocentric categorizations. Asante says that Afrocentrism is primarily epistemological – a set of guidelines one can use to interpret a wide variety of data. Afrocentrists work in two domains, the cultural/aesthetic and the social/behavioural, which cut across traditional disciplinary boundaries. In essence, ‘Afrocentricity is a perspective which allows Africans to be subjects of historical experiences rather than objects on the fringes of Europe. This means that the Afrocentrist is concerned with discovering in every case the centred place of the African’ (Asante 1987: 2). More specifically, Afrocentrism is a sustained critique of Eurocentric philosophy, which in Asante’s universe, means the various constructive philosophies – beginning with Kant and Hegel – that comprise the universalizing modernist project in which elegantly simple explanatory principles are thought to underlie or explain a widely diverse array of data. Asante’s orientation is not so much to condemn Eurocentric philosophy, but to suggest that alternate explanations, alternative epistemological sets are needed to fully understand culturally specific sets of data. Put another way, Asante suggests that one needs to use an African lens, shaped through African ideas, to interpret data on African or African American social life and culture. These African ideas, which he describes comprehensively in two books, The Afrocentric Idea (1987) and Kemet, Afrocentricity and Knowledge (1990), are derived from African systems of thought, the fundamental tenants of which devolve, according to Asante’s Diopian (or diffusionist) view, from Kemet or Ancient Egyptian civilization.2 Asante argues that all African societies, including those found in the New World, trace their fundamental philosophical concepts to Ancient Egypt. A case in point are ideas about harmony-in-the-world associated with the Ancient Egyptian Goddess Ma’at. According to Asante (1990) these concepts include: 1

tep (beginning) which is associated with the adornment of children, late weaning, age-grading, and the cultural importance of fertility; 75

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2 3 4 5

pet (extensions) in which the group is more valued than the individual in a society of extended families that honour their ancestors; heb (festival) in which the group emphasizes ritual in social life; sen (circle) in which the group celebrates in a cyclical rather than a linear cycle of life; and meh (crowning glory) belief in a supreme deity, a quest for harmoniousness as well as a pride in ones life.

Asante believes that these core social concepts are embedded in the expressive culture of all African people – including African Americans. ‘The transformation of these concepts throughout Africa and the African world has meant that the influence of Kemet continues unabated even in the language and behaviour of African Americans. We are essentially a people of Ma’at, we cannot escape it because it is based upon thousands of years of history’ (ibid.: 93–4). There are by now many works written by Afrocentric scholars like Asante that focus upon questions of history, the arts, culture, psychology and education. But Afrocentrism is more than the exercise of employing these core principles to the scholarly analysis of things African and African American; it is also the attempt to extend them to African Americans through ritual. The most important and widely practised Afrocentric ritual is Kwanzaa, which is, in fact, a seven-day African American holiday celebrated between Christmas and the New Year. Maulena Karenga first celebrated Kwanzaa on December 26, 1966 in Los Angeles. Karenga shaped the festival to celebrate a set of core African values, or what Dorothy Winbush Riley calls ‘ancient wisdom’. This wisdom is more or less what Molefi Asante attributes to Kemet or Ancient Egypt. For Karenga, these values are best articulated in Swahili, one of the most widely spoken languages in Africa. According to Riley (1995: 3) the seven core principles (or Nguzo Saba) are: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

umoja or unity; kujichagulia or self-determination; ujima or collective work and responsibility; ujamaa or cooperative economics; nia or purpose; kuumba or creativity; and imani or faith.

Each day of the seven-day festival is associated with one of the seven sacred principles. On day one, for example, which celebrates the umoja principle, people are urged to celebrate in some fashion the principle of unity. On day seven, imani, people express their faith through the 76

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exchange of preferably homemade gifts. Just as Kwanzaa features seven principles, it also features seven symbols that underscore its Afrocentric foundation (ibid.: 20–7). These are: 1 2 3 4

5 6 7

mazao or fruits, nuts and vegetables that reflect the results of family labour that are celebrated in African harvest festivals; mkeka or the place mat, which expresses African history and culture; vibunzi or an ear of corn which stands for fertility and family viability; misumaa saba or the seven candles which symbolize the sun and its light. The black candle, which stands for unity is placed in the centre of the candleholder and lit on the first night of Kwanzaa. Three green candles (self-determination, collective work, cooperative economics) are placed to right of the unity candle. Three red candles (purpose, creativity, faith) are placed to the left of the unity candle. During the festival one candle, representing one sacred principle is lit each night; kinara or the candleholder is the source of life – the ancestors; kikombre cha umoja or unity cup is used to enact a libation on the sixth day of the festival; and zawadi or gifts are exchanged on the seventh and final festival day.

Just as the serious and complex persona of Malcolm X has been commodified as an ‘X’ on tee shirts, sweatshirts, baseball caps, and potato chips, so the complex symbolism and meaning of Kwanzaa has been marketed to the North American mainstream. Originally, Kwanzaa, according to Malauna Karenga, attempted ‘to reaffirm African culture . . . It was at the same time a political act of self-determination. The question is how to make our own unique culture. We were talking about Africanisation’ (Wilde 1995: 69). At first Kwanzaa drew about 200 celebrants. In 1995 an estimated 10 million African Americans celebrated Kwanzaa. In some sense Kwaanza . . . is rapidly winning a place on the nation’s holiday calendar alongside Chanukah and Christmas. But like all things that succeed in America, Kwanzaa (a word that derives from the Swahili meaning ‘first fruits of harvest’) has become big business. What was conceived . . . as a low-key, low-cost ritual centred on table and hearth is now beginning to look a lot like, well . . . Christmas. (Woodward and Johnson 1995: 88) Kwaanza has become, in other words, a mainstream American holiday. This fact has two social ramifications: (a) Kwanzaa is increasingly 77

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celebrated by middle-class African Americans who have a great deal of money to spend and (b) the holiday has become increasingly commercial. The changing celebration patterns of Kwanzaa reflect national patterns in America, notably the rise of the black middle class and the simultaneous popularisation in the 1980s and 1990s of a ‘multicultural’ ideal in which people assert themselves as members of ethnic minorities instead to integration into the ‘majority culture.’ In the late 1960s, Kwanzaa was a manifestation of the black separatism of that decade, a backlash by ‘revolutionaries’ against what was seen as the failed integration of ‘black bourgeoisie . . .’ (Wilde 1995: 70–1) Henry Louis Gates, who is perhaps the most widely respected African American intellectual in the United States, also links the mainstreaming of Kwanzaa to the rise of a black middle class that feels alienated from white society. ‘ “We were the first large-scale number of black people to come to historically white institutions,” he says of his own generation. “There is a resulting cultural alienation”’ (ibid.: 71). Gates goes on to suggest that middle-class African Americans often feel ‘the guilt of the survivor’ and buy Afrocentric items as a way of maintaining cultural fidelity with blackness (ibid.: 71). Kwame Anthony Appiah, author of the much celebrated In My Father’s House (1992), has a similar take on Kwanzaa: African American culture is so strongly identified with a culture of poverty and degradation . . . you have a greater investment, as it were, more to prove [if you are middle class], so Kwanzaa and kente cloth are part of proving you’re not running away from being black, which is what you’re likely to be accused of by other blacks. (Ibid.: 71) For his part, Gerald Early, a professor of African American Studies at Washington University in St Louis, sees the mass appeal of Kwanzaa somewhat differently from Gates and Appiah. He writes: Racial piety also permeates the Kwanzaa principles. Such simple maxims are the sort of earnest ideals that are difficult to oppose or argue with. No one questions whether they really have any connection to the complexity of modern African78

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American life. The genius of Kwanzaa – the reason it has taken on the air of a mass movement – is that these rather innocuous principles are joined with an historical complaint, one that blacks have long harboured, against the cultural celebration of Christmas. (Early 1997: 56–7) Put another way, Early suggests that the success of Kwanzaa is an expression of African American alienation from the whiteness of Christmas. Whatever reason one suggests for the mainstreaming of Kwaanza, few people – including, of course, West African entrepreneurs in Harlem – can doubt its vast commercial power. During Kwanzaa, Afrocentric symbols including strips of kente cloth, Hallmark Kwanzaa greeting cards, gift wraps and Nia Umoja, a white bearded doll that symbolizes the wisdom of African storytellers, are easily found in gift shops, book stores, drug stores, supermarkets as well as in such stalwart American stores as Sears, J.C. Penny and Montgomery Ward. Afrocentric products are also highly visible at various Kwanzaa Expos. Among the most firmly established of these is the Kwanzaa Expo in St Louis, established in 1987. It draws some 220 merchants and perhaps 35,000 people during its two-day run (Wilde 1995: 70). The largest Kwaanza Expo takes place in New York City. Held first in 1981 at a public school in Harlem, the New York Kwanzaa Expo moved to the Jacob Javits Centre in 1993. What had been a small commercial gathering needed a larger venue to make space for more than 300 vendors and 50,000 shoppers. Booths representing such mainstream American corporations as Anheuser-Busch, Pepsi, Revlon, Chemical Bank, AT&T and Time-Life Books had been set up. And no wonder, ‘for the middle-class black community supports a national market for Kwaanza goods estimated to be worth as much as US$100 million (ibid.: 71; see also The Economist 1994: A32). In 1995 the New York Kwanzaa Expo featured elaborate arrays of Afrocentric books, cloth, and crafts – all meant to symbolize in some fashion the seven principles of Kwanzaa. In 1995 the Expo also drew African American entertainers, savvy politicians and a good number of West African street vendors, like Boubé Mounkaila and Issifi Mayaki, both of whom ‘sold out’ at the exposition. In December 1997, however, they chose not to attend the event at the Jacob Javits Centre. ‘The fees for booths have become far too high,’ Issifi Mayaki lamented. ‘We can no longer make a profit.’3 As savvy entrepreneurs Boubé Mounkaila, Issifi Mayaki and their West African colleagues have realized that Africa sells very well indeed in North America. They are, of course, not alone in this realization. Many African American entrepreneurs are seeking profits by marketing Afrocentricity. 79

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Five years ago, brightly coloured hand-woven Kente cloth, brimless Kufi hats, earthy mud cloths from Ghana and Senegal and bone-toned cowry shell jewellery appeared to be a nostalgic way of dressing among African Americans. Instead of a short-term fad, these elements have formed an exciting new trend – the Afrocentric lifestyle. African Americans have placed ethnic products high on their shopping lists. No longer a form of ‘alternate’ dressing or decorating, Afrocentric merchandise is among the hottest selling retail products on the market, with a growing crossover appeal to mainstream consumers. Many African Americans are cashing in on this market. For these new black-owned businesses, the key to retailing success lies in selling ethnic products in large volume. But while the spirit is willing, their pockets are not always as deep. To take their message and products to market, many black-owned companies are forming joint ventures with majority-owned corporations, from manufacturing to retail, to underwrite their production, marketing and distribution efforts. (Wilkinson 1996: 72) The tendency to ‘water down’ African objects and tailor them to contemporary African American lifestyles worries some commentators in the African American community. Timothy L. Jenkins, writing in a 1995 issue of American Visions, is concerned about dilution of African symbolism in African America: Accordingly, as kente-related products have soared into a major market, those who kept their fingers on the pulse of the AfricanAmerican consumers soon learned that they neither understood nor seemed to care much that the hats, wraps, handbags and now umbrellas ostensibly worn to boast African roots had labels reading ‘Made in Taiwan.’ Not only was pricing more important than quality and authenticity for such enthusiasts, but the age-old sacred meanings and symbolisms of indigenous culture reflected in such products were oftentimes both figuratively and literally stood on their heads. ( Jenkins 1995: 4) Jenkins goes on to suggest that this diluted comprehension of things African is widespread. He laments the fact that in his view African American consumers of Afrocentric products have more desire for commodities than a comprehension of heritage: 80

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And they virtually never questioned the fact that most of their fraternal and organization paraphernalia were mass produced from sweatshops generating no relevant employment along the pipeline of their production. Gone was any concern for the indigenous technical genius, unique social significance or residual economic benefits. Rather theirs was an appetite for mere commodities at the expense of heritage. (Ibid.: 4)

Copying culture Jenkins’s commentary may be somewhat narrow and bit snobbish, for what he describes is part and parcel of a global phenomenon, the commodification of culture, a phenomenon that is not constrained by class, gender or ethnicity. African Americans are not the only consumers attracted to diluted symbols or products – Afrocentric or otherwise. Throughout the world people are increasingly drawn to the copy of the original, to the simulation of the real (see Baudrillard 1983, 1986; Coombe 1996, 1998; Connor 1989; Harvey 1989) Much of this fascination with the copy can be traced to the emergence in the twentieth century of mechanical reproduction, the cinematic image in the theatre. The allure of the copy has been further intensified through electronic reproduction, the computer image on the information superhighway. These issues have been explored in depth in Michael Taussig’s Mimesis and Alterity (1993) in which the author documents powerfully the contemporary fascination with and power of the copy.4 Drawing upon the work of Walter Benjamin, Taussig identifies the human predilection to copy originals as the mimetic faculty. He says that mimicry is about power. To copy something is to master it. But once it is made, the copy influences the original. The representation gains or shares in the power of the represented and image affects what it is an image of (see Coombe 1996: 205; see also Taussig 1993). As we have seen in the marketing of Afrocentric merchandise, the predilection to make copies and copies of copies significantly affects commercial relations as well as margins of profit and loss. In her work on the cultural and political signification of trademarks and copyrights, Rosemary Coombe has focused on how the mimetic faculty affects the political and economic impact of trademarks. In contemporary commercial arenas like a Kwanzaa Expo or the Malcolm Shabazz Harlem Market Coombe demonstrates how the trademark, which is an image, links the copy with its originator. 81

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A mark must attract the consumer to a particular source that, in mass markets, is often unknown and distant. A logo registers fidelity in at least two senses. It operates as a signature of authenticity, indicating that the good that bears it is true to its origins – that is, that the good is a true or accurate copy. It is exactly the same as another good bearing the same mark, and different from other goods carrying other marks (these are both fictions, of course, but ones that are legally recognized and maintained). The mark also configures fidelity in a second sense; it registers a real contact, a making, a moment of imprinting by one for whom it acts as a kind of fingerprint-branding. But if the mark figures fidelity, it also inspires fidelity in the form of brand loyalty. The consumer seeks it out, domesticates it, and provides it with protective shelter; he makes a form of bodily contact with it. The mark distinguishes the copy by connecting it to an originator and connecting the originator with a moment of consumption. (Coombe 1996: 205) Given the mimetic framework, we can see that Afrocentric marketing is one increasingly important example of the mimetic faculty. The original meaning of an ‘X’ that refers to the African American’s brutal disconnection from Africa is often eclipsed by more contemporary significations. ‘X’ also refers to the powerful and prideful Black Nationalist discourse of Malcolm X that can sometimes be heard on loudspeakers at the Malcolm Shabazz Harlem Market. It also can be associated with the hype that surrounded Spike Lee’s film Malcolm X, the publicity for which sparked the sales of ‘X’ products. The marketing of ‘X,’ a central Afrocentric symbol, transformed ‘X’ into a commodity that bears the considerable weight of current political, cultural, economic and legal machinations. The same can be said of Kwanzaa, which, like all celebrations, is, in paraphrase of Eric Hobsbawn and Terrance Ranger, an invented holiday. Celebrants of Kwanzaa have borrowed ideas from Christmas and Chanukah to create a uniquely African American simulation, to use Jean Baudrillard’s language, of an African harvest ritual. Soon after they began to arrive in New York City in the late 1980s, West African street vendors there grasped the economic significance of marketing Afrocentricity. From their rickety card tables along the sidewalks of 125th Street, they began to sell not only such Afrocentric products as kente cloth strips and caps, Malian mud cloth, Tuareg silver jewellery, but also products, like ‘X’ baseball caps, and certain ‘trade82

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marked’ products, some original, some counterfeit, that have become fashionable among urban African Americans. Even though Afrocentric products have been ‘hot,’ there are periodic economic ebbs and flows that vary with the season. To maximize their economic opportunities to market Afrocentricity, West African traders in New York have constructed long-distance trade networks throughout the United States. These networks enable the traders to follow the cycle of African American professional and cultural festivals. In 1994 Bandele Publications delighted West African traders by bringing out the first volume of its Annual Small Business Guide to African-American Multicultural Events: Conferences, Festivals, Shows (Bandele 1994) Enterprising West African entrepreneurs used this resource, which lists the dates, locales, contact people and booth fees for more than 700 vending opportunities, to help chart their long-distance trading itineraries. In the spring, summer and fall of 1994, for example, a crew of four Nigerien traders, Hausas all, spent much of their time circulating among African American festivals in the East, South and Midwest of the United States. That year the lure of profits propelled them to South Carolina to sell at the Spring Fling in Spartenburg, the Gullah Festival in Beaufort, and the Moja Arts Festival in Charleston. They travelled to Chicago to attend the 20th Annual Third World Conference and the African Festival of the Arts. In Atlanta they displayed wares at the Marché Africain/African Market. In Philadelphia they set up booths at the Africaamerica Festival, the Parade and Market. In New Orleans they showed up at the African Heritage Festival International and in Norfolk, Virginia, at the AFR’AM Festival. In Detroit they presented themselves at the International Freedom Festival and the African World Festival. In Chicago, one of their best markets, they set up shop at the African Festival of the Arts. They also followed the Black Expo, USA, circuit, a travelling exposition that attracts large crowds of African Americans to regionally organized trade shows that feature and celebrate African American businesses. In 1994 Hausa traders from Harlem attended Black Expo trade shows in Atlanta, Washington, DC, New York City, Chicago, Indianapolis, Detroit, Milwaukee, Richmond and New Orleans. One of the principal players in the West African trade network in North America is Idé Younoussa. Idé is a 35-year-old Songhay man from Niger who is known among Harlem’s West African street vendors as ‘The Chauffeur.’ Although he has resided in Harlem and the Upper West Side of Manhattan since 1989, he spends most of his time on the road. ‘I have been to more than twenty states in America: Florida, Indiana, Illinois, Texas, Missouri, Tennessee, Oklahoma, even New Mexico. Very beautiful New Mexico. It’s like Niger.’5 Idé transports his clients in a 83

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white Ford Econoline van with well over 100,000 miles on its odometer. When he travels, he helps his clients load their wares, drives them to their destination, and helps to unload the cargo. He expects clients to pay him a fee for his services; he also insists that they pay for gas, tolls, potential repairs and lodging. These costs are usually evenly split by Idé’s charges. Idé’s van is registered in New York State. He has an international driver’s permit as well as a licence from New York State. When Idé transports his clients to distant locations, he usually drives through the night until the destination is reached. It takes Idé about 12 hours to travel from New York to Chicago and about 16 hours to go from New York to Orlando, Florida. I don’t get tired on the road. Driving is my life; it gives me strength. I like the feeling I get on the road. It makes me feel free. I’m hardly ever in New York. Just for one or two days when I come back and then I’m off again. When I went to New Mexico, I made the round trip in only three days.6 Idé’s clientele is not limited to West African street vendors from New York. He also transports itinerant West African art merchants. These merchants, who will be the subject of a future study, do not reside in the United States. They come to North America on bona fide business visas for three to six months during which they wholesale African Art to North American distributors, to galleries of African Art, to boutiques or to private clients. Like the West African street vendors, the West African Art merchants pay Idé a fee and provide him funds for repairs, gas, tolls, food and lodging. Idé is not the only chauffeur in the community of West African traders in New York. In the summer of 1995, Soumana Harouna, a Hausa from Dogondoutché in Niger, bought a relatively new Econoline van. In 1995, Soumana, who usually drives a Medallion cab in New York City, decided to invest in a van and transport West African merchants throughout the South, East and Midwest of the United States. He did so with great success. In 1996, however, he decided to give up his chauffeuring business. Through overuse the van had fallen into a state of disrepair: ‘Too many problems with the van. It was good last summer,’ he said in the winter of 1996. ‘But it will cost too much to repair. This summer I’ll stay here and drive my cab.’7 In 1999, Issifi Mayaki, who sells cloth, bought a minivan that he intends to use to transport inventory to cultural festivals in the summer of 2000. The epicentre of the West African trading network is New York City, which is where one finds the greatest concentration of West African 84

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traders and the goods they import, buy, sell or export back to West Africa. Since 1989, ‘freres’ (brothers – the term West African traders use to refer to one another, as already noted) have routinely left New York City and have established outposts in Atlanta, Boston, Washington, DC, Philadelphia, New Orleans, Houston, Chicago, Albuquerque, New Mexico, and Los Angeles. At these outposts they sell African crafts at local markets and festivals, form wholesale enterprises or establish small boutiques. When ‘freres’ from New York travel to one of these outposts they expect, like their trading ancestors in West Africa, a local host to receive them. The reception of travelling traders by their local hosts entails some, if not all of the following: 1 2 3 4

temporary storage of goods extension of credit facilitation of sales in local markets food and lodging.

When a local host travels to the network centre, in turn, his or her trading partner will receive him or her in a similar manner. These long-distance trading relationships are facilitated by real or fictive ties of kinship, which encompass a mutually binding set of rights and obligations. In North America, these West African long-distance trading patterns have sometimes been replicated in modified form. Some of the traders in New York have blood kin in major markets outside of the city. Ali Boubakar, a Hausa from Dogondoutché in Niger, has two brothers who live in the US. One is in Philadelphia; the other lives in Minneapolis. He also has a cousin who lives in Chicago. When he travels to Philadelphia or Chicago, he relies on his kin. He is also their principal wholesale supplier. Most of the traders, however, do not have blood kin in major markets outside of New York City. They rely upon fictive ties born of their shared experience in West Africa and of their commercial expectations as pious Muslims – to create a code of mutually binding rights and obligations. In the latter case, hosts who are not blood kin to travelling traders will facilitate the business of their partners but may not house or feed them. For this reason, most travelling traders are prepared to spend several nights at cheap hotels, where four or five of them will share a room. When trading partners come to New York City, however, the ‘freres’ not only facilitate their business, but also house and feed them. The reason for these inequities in hospitality is that in New York City there are many traders who have apartments – and some space – in Harlem, the Bronx and Brooklyn. Outside of New York, the number of ‘freres’ is as limited as is the living space they have to share. Unless 85

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visitors have blood kin residing in a place like Chicago, for example, they expect to stay in inexpensive hotels.8

Simulating Africa So far we have seen that marketing Afrocentricity is a complex – and profitable – process that involves centrally the mimetic faculty. As a philosophical doctrine, Afrocentrism is primarily an epistemological stance in contradistinction to Eurocentric philosophy; it is based upon longstanding African principles of philosophy – Asante’s Principles of Ma’at. These principles, borrowed from Ancient Egypt or Kemet, are applied not only to scholarly activities, but have been extended to such public policy issues as the curricula in public schools as well as to such public celebrations as Kwanzaa. Afrocentrism also generates ethnic pride: pride in the past greatness and current wisdom of African civilization. Pride in things African – or quasi-African – also generates economic potential. The manufacture and distribution of Afrocentric products has produced yearly sales in excess of US$100 million. African American entrepreneurs have found their niche in this market and have, accordingly, expanded their Afrocentric-oriented companies as well as their Afrocentricproduced profits. For their part, West African vendors in New York City quickly grasped the appeal of a monolithic Afrocentric ‘Africa’ in the African American imaginary and in African American markets. They extended their trading networks beyond New York City to major markets in the American South, East and Midwest, following a circuit of African American festivals. Whether they do business at the Malcolm Shabazz Harlem Market or in what they call ‘the bush,’ which is any locale outside of New York City, these West Africans sell two forms of goods: unmarked goods that represent a reified Africa and counterfeit trademarked goods for an African American market. The African goods, ersatz kente cloth scarves, combs, trade beads, leather goods . . . are unmarked by any authorial signature or point of origin. West African export–importers, who do not reside in New York, order and bring in products specially made for the Harlem and Black Expo, USA circuit. Knowing what forms Africa must take for an African American market, they produce generic items that are marked neither by artist, village, cultural area or region. Their distinction lies in their being African – a monolithic cultural whole in the Afrocentric imaginary . . . (Coombe and Stoller 1994: 265) 86

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The subject position of being a real African in an African American economic niche that has constructed ideal Africans living in a largely imagined Africa creates some fundamental ironies for West African street merchants in New York City. West African vendors find themselves both catering to and resisting a stereotypical image of themselves (as Africans they say that they are seen as more ‘primitive’ intellectually by some of their clientele) that both benefits them economically and denies their cultural specificity. They, however, may have less at stake in maintaining a . . . cultural identity than we, as scholars whose disciplinary authority still rests upon such distinctions, might presume. Knowing something about the history and plight of African Americans a few . . . migrants accept the fact that the ‘Africa’ African Americans ‘need’ is not the one they know. In the Harlem market context they are prepared to renounce recognition of the complexities of the Africa from which they come, and make a gift of the more unencumbered significance it has acquired in the local community. (Ibid.: 265) One can consider marketing Afrocentricity an economically astute response to ever changing local market conditions. African American and African entrepreneurs have exploited the opportunities that Afrocentrism has presented them. Realizing a new niche for considerable profits, Corporate America is now producing, marketing and selling Afrocentric products. Saying that marketing Afrocentricity is simply an economically astute response to a changing economic market, of course, does not explain the considerable success of the venture. An Afrocentric reading of this marketing success might suggest the that widespread contemporary appeal of African material culture in North America – however expressed – is generated by the vitality of African social life and the philosophy that it embodies; it also creates a proud link between Africa and Africa America. Like most readings in the humanities and social sciences, this hypothetical Afrocentric reading is partially true (see Clifford 1988). One cannot deny the appeal of Afrocentric products in North America. And one cannot ignore the expressive vitality of Afrocentric products. And yet, the reading does not consider the ironies of real Africans selling Afrocentric products, representing a monolithic Africa, that are not only made in Africa, but also in Asia and New Jersey, where Asians once reproduced Ghanaian kente cloth. 87

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When a West African vendor dons a hat made in Bangladesh, emblazoned with the slogan ‘Another Black Man Making Money’ while greeting his customers as ‘Brother’ on the streets of Harlem, the cross-cutting significations of this performative add new dimensions to an understanding of the black public sphere. Not only does he echo and refract an ironic African American response to the racism of white America, he also adopts a competitive posture and questions the parameters of Blackness that defines the Man, making his own difference as potentially ‘Another Young Black Man.’ He is also complicit with the subtextual tensions of ethnicity, gender and class that reverberate from this phrase. The ironies of its traffic through export processing zones in Asia, factories in New Jersey, wholesalers in Chinatown, West African vendors in Harlem and the African American cultural community do not enable any singular conclusion . . . (Coombe and Stoller 1994: 269–70) To better comprehend the contemporary ironies of marketing Afrocentricity, we might also consider it as part and parcel of the global process of what Jean Baudrillard calls ‘simulation.’ The difference between, say, feigning an illness and simulating one is, for Baudrillard, fundamental. When patients feign an illness, says Baudrillard, they makebelieve that they are sick. When patients simulate an illness, they reproduce some of the symptoms. ‘Thus feigning or dissimulating leaves the reality principle intact: the difference is always clear, it is only masked; whereas simulation threatens the difference between “true” and “false,” between “real” and “imaginary.” Since the simulator produces “true” symptoms, is he ill or not?’ (Baudrillard 1983: 5). The presence of simulations therefore confounds objective and subjective, truth and fiction, real and unreal. The contemporary importance of simulation grew with what Walter Benjamin called mechanical reproduction – the reproduction of phonographic sounds and pictorial images. With the emergence of cybernetic electronic reproduction during the past 20 years, simulation’s power has grown exponentially. In simulatory cyberspace the distinction between the real and unreal becomes superfluous. In Baudrillard’s language the ‘very definition of the real becomes: that of which it is possible to give an equivalent reproduction . . . At the very limit of this process of reproducibility the real is not only what can be reproduced, but that which is always already reproduced. The hyperreal’ (ibid.: 146). For Baudrillard, reality in the contemporary era has disappeared into 88

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a game of reality in which signs are joyfully exchanged through a process of endless reduplication. ‘It is thus that for guilt, anguish and death there can be substituted the total joy of the signs of guilt, despair, violence and death. It is the very euphoria of simulation, that sees itself as the abolition of cause and effect, the beginning and the end, for all of which it substitutes reduplication . . .’ (ibid.: 148) The game of reality found in simulations confounds distinctions between truth and fiction, right and wrong; it elevates nostalgia to new heights. The transition from signs, which dissimulate something to signs that dissimulate that there is nothing, marks a decisive turning point. The first implies a theology of truth and secrecy (to which the notion of ideology still belongs). The second inaugurates the age of simulacra and simulation, in which there is no longer any God to recognize his own, nor any last judgment to separate true from false, real from its artificial resurrection, since everything is already dead and risen in advance. When the real is no longer what it used to be, nostalgia assumes its full meaning. There is a proliferation of myths of origin and signs of reality; of second-hand truth, objectivity and authenticity. There is an escalation of the true, of the lived experience; a resurrection of the figurative where the object and substance have disappeared (ibid.: 148) This escalation of lived experience and figuration is linked inexorably to what Baudrillard calls the Age of Simulacra. Using a less bombastic language, Manuel Castells positions the collective simulation processes isolated by Baudrillard in what the former calls the information age. In the information age globalizing forces compel the construction of social identities not based upon civil society, but upon communal principles. In Castells language, global forces, such as those that brought West African traders to New York City, compel civil societies to shrink and disarticulate because there is no longer continuity between the logic of power-making in the global network and the logic of association and representation in specific societies and cultures. The search for meaning takes place then in the reconstruction of defensive identities around communal principles . . . (Castells 1997: 11) In this light the search for cultural meaning and personal meaningfulness in Afrocentrism is centred on, in Baudrillard’s language, the reduplication of a monolithic Africa that, in turn, reinforces communal principles in African America. The ideal Africa articulated in Afrocentric signs is one in which, to paraphrase Baudrillard, nostalgia is energized, in which 89

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‘there is a proliferation of myths of origin and signs of reality . . .’ (Baudrillard 1983: 14). In Afrocentrism, African values, mores, and ideas, do not come from an Africa of the recent past, but have their origin in distant times. Molefi Asante proclaims that African Americans are people of Ma’at (Asante 1990: 93–4). In the information age, these complex Afrocentric principles are transformed into signs – an ‘X’ on a baseball cap, a kente cloth shawl, a greeting card with ‘African’ designs, linens with ‘African’ motifs. From an Afrocentric vantage, these signs embody the communal principles of a proud African America; they lend a strong hand to African Americans as they confront the profound difficulty of being a black person in a fundamentally racist society. By the same token, as these signs are commodified in a simulated system of signs, the reduplicatory power of the Afrocentric image overwhelms the referential power of the Afrocentric philosophical principle. ‘X’ may become simply an ‘in’ fashion rather than a symbol for slavery’s annihilation of African America’s connection to Africa. Kente may stand for a casual African American take on Africanity rather than a symbol of Asante nobility. The ecstasy of the sign, to borrow again from Baudrillard, not only obscures the real and unreal, the simulated and the dissimulated, but also sparks economic engines which today run on the high-octane fuel of simulation. Through the circulation of reduplicated signs in the media marketing Afrocentricity creates in North America a simulated Africa. There are ‘watered down’ African designs that appeal – quite profitably – to increasingly widespread North American constituencies. There are festivals like Atlanta’s Marché Africain/African Market that attempt to recreate African markets in North American urban spaces. There are crews of Hausa, Malinke and Wolof traders, constructing their economic selves as ‘real’ Africans. They follow the circuit of these festivals lending to them an ‘authentic’ African presence. And then there are the African markets in Harlem. The 125th Street market, called the African Market, was until October 1994 a simulation of an African market. The spatial organization and informal dynamics of the market replicated spatial organization and informal dynamics of markets in West Africa. On 125th Street, the cultural crossroads of African America, Hausa, Songhay, Fulan, Malinke, and Wolof merchants, self-constructed as monolithic Africans, sold Africana of no distinct ethnic origin to appeal to the ideological popularity of a monolithic Afrocentric Africa. They sold ‘trademarked’ goods to appeal to the more localized tastes. They burned African incense to evoke the Motherland. They addressed shoppers as ‘brother’ or ‘sister’ to appeal to a simulated African/African American solidarity. They have continued these simulated practices at the Malcolm 90

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Shabazz Harlem Market at 116th and Lenox Avenue. Indeed, the Harlem markets direct a circulation of ecstatic signs in which difference is diluted to promote economic activity and profits. By marketing Afrocentricity at outdoor markets, at trade expositions, in mainstream retail stores, on catalogue pages or in the virtual markets found on the Internet, a simulated Africa has emerged in North America. By understanding the importance of the copy, West African merchants, who, like their forebears, are known for their economic adaptability, have marketed Afrocentricity and enhanced profoundly the profitability of their enterprises in North America. *** Sitting in his booth at the Malcolm Shabazz Harlem Market, Issifi Mayaki often burns incense. One day I asked him why he burned incense. ‘I like it,’ he said. ‘It is also good for business. It reminds my clients that I’m an African. I think they like that. And things that remind the African Americans about Africa is good for business.’ Issifi’s practice of contexualizing himself – in economic settings like the market or trade shows – is a central adaptive theme in his capacity to market Afrocentricity. Capitalizing upon his Africanity and the fact that he lives in Harlem, the cultural epicentre of African America, he and his compatriots have constructed long-distance trade networks throughout North America to facilitate the sale of their goods at African American festivals. Like the Harlem markets on 125th Street and 116th Street and Lenox Avenue, these festivals are, in fact, simulations of West African markets. Like all simulations in the age of commodified signs, these African examples in the New World have made America a sweet land of opportunity.

Notes 1 Interview with Boubé Mounkaila in New York City, March 17, 1993. 2 M.K. Asante seemingly overlooks the fact that critiques of European constructivism have a long history along the side roads of social theory. One thinks here of the critical philosophies of Montaigne, Nietzsche, Heidegger and their philosophical successors, especially Merleau-Ponty (1962, 1964) and Foucault (1970). In one way or another these thinkers challenged the hegemony of European constructivist and positivist philosophy. Asante’s critique, in fact, shares much substance with post-structuralism and postmodernism. Following the work of Jacques Derrida, especially in Of Grammatology (1976) and The Post Card (1987) there has been a sustained critique of a modernist philosophical edifice founded upon what Derrida calls logocentrism. In the United States the work of Richard Rorty, especially his monumental Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature (1979), has powerfully deconstructed the very epistemological edifice

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3 4

5 6 7 8

that Asante critiques. In essence, a postmodern critique, like that of Asante, underscores the complexity of thought and social as well as the need to recognize, if not embrace, the fragmented nature and particularistic richness of social thought and social life. From the vantage of a critical philosophy one could see the development of Afrocentrism as part of a growing identity politics that has emerged in the space of postmodernity’s condition – itself a result the unleashing of the forces of globalization (see Keith 1997; Appiah 1992; Harvey 1989). For the past twenty years, in fact, anthropologists have seriously questioned the Eurocentric bias of their discipline, which has had many ramifications in the practice of fieldwork as well as in representational strategies (see Marcus and Fischer 1985; Clifford and Marcus 1986; Tyler 1998; Stoller 1989, 1997, to cite only a few of very many titles). From an epistemological vantage, then, it is wrong to think or imply that Afrocentrism is a lonely, isolated reaction to or corrective of Eurocentric modernist philosophies. It is, rather, part of an ever growing disenchantment with the philosophical legacy of the Enlightenment. Interview with Issifi Mayaki in New York City, January 28, 1998. Although Afrocentrism is a serious attempt to construct a distinct epistemology, if we examine it from form a vantage of breadth, it is clear that it, too, is part and parcel of the mimetic faculty. From Maulama Karenga to Molefi Asante, Afrocentric scholars have isolated what they consider core pan-African values (Karenga’s seven principles of Kwanzaa and Asante’s five principles of Ma’at. Applied to scholarship, the creation of rituals, or the promotion of social policy, these Afrocentric principles are, like many Afrocentric products, reproductions, copies of dense and nuanced African systems of thought. They are copies that take on the character of the original, which in the case of Asante’s system, existed in the distant past; they are copies, following Taussig (1993), that influence the original. Given the power of the copy in the globalized context of postmodernity, Afrocentrism becomes a system of signs that is transformed into a simulation of reality. Like so many contemporary social movements, Afrocentrism become hyperreal. In Baudrillard’s language Afrocentrism may ‘no longer be a question of imitation, nor of reproduction, nor even of parody. It is rather a question of substituting signs of the real for the real itself, that is, an operation to deter every real process by its operational double, a metastable, programmatic, perfect descriptive machine which provides all the signs of the real and short circuits all of its vicissitudes’ (1983: 4) Interview with Idé Younoussa in New York City, March 17, 1993. Ibid. Interview with Sidi Sansane in New York City, March 5, 1995. Interviews with Amadu Bita, Issifi Mayaki, Idrissa Dan Inna and Moussa Boureima in New York City, March 5–6, 1995.

References Appiah, Kwame Anthony, 1992, In My Father’s House, London and New York: Oxford University Press. Asante, Molefi Kete, 1987, The Afrocentric Idea, Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

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Asante, Molefi Kete, 1990, Kemet, Afrocentricity and Knowledge, Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press. Asante, Molefi Kete, 1993, Malcolm X as Cultural Hero and Other Afrocentric Essays, Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press. Bandele, Gabriel, 1994, Annual Small Business Guide to African-American Multicultural Events: Conferences, Festivals, Shows, 1993–94 Edition, Washington, DC: Bandele Publications. Baudrillard, Jean, 1983, Simulations, New York: Semiotext. Baudrillard, Jean, 1986, America, New York: Semiotext. Castells, Manuel, 1997, The Power of Identity, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Clifford, James and Marcus, George E., (eds), 1986, Writing Culture, Berkeley: University of California Press. Clifford, James, 1988, The Predicament of Culture, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Connor, Stephen J., 1989, Postmodern Culture, London: Blackwell. Coombe, Rosemary J., 1996, ‘Embodied Trademarks: Mimesis and Alterity on American Cultural Frontiers,’ Cultural Anthropology 11, 2: 202–25. Coombe, Rosemary J., 1998, Cultural Appropriation: Authorship, Alterity and the Law, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Coombe, Rosemary J., and Stoller, Paul, 1994, ‘X Marks the Spot: The Ambiguities of African Trading in the Commerce of the Black Public Sphere,’ Public Culture, 15: 249–75. Derrida, Jacques, 1976, Of Grammatology, trans. G.T. Spivak, Baltimore, MA: Johns Hopkins University Press. Derrida, Jacques, 1987, The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Early, Gerald, 1997, ‘Dreaming of a Black Christmas,’ Harpers Magazine, 294: 55–62. The Economist, 1994, ‘Only in Afro-America.’ The Economist, 333, 7894: A32. Foucault, Michel, 1970, The Order of Things: Archaeology of the Human Sciences, New York: Random House. Harvey, David, 1989, The Condition of Postmodernity, London: Basil Blackwell. Hopkins, Anthony G., 1983, An Economic History of West Africa, London: Cambridge University Press. Jenkins, Timothy J., 1995, ‘Misguided “Authenticity,”’ American Visions, 10, 2: 4. Keith, Nelson, 1997, Reframing International Development: Globalism, Postmodernity and Difference, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Marcus, George E. and Fischer, Michael M.J., 1985, Anthropology as Cultural Critique, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 1962, The Phenomenology of Perception, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 1964, L’Oeil et l’esprit, Paris: Gallimard. Riley, Dorothy Winbush, 1995, The Complete Kwanzaa: Celebrating Our Cultural Harvest, New York: HarperCollins. Rorty, Richard, 1979, Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Stoller, Paul, 1989, The Taste of Ethnographic Things, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Stoller, Paul, 1997, ‘Globalizing Method: Doing Ethnography in Transnational Spaces,’ Anthropology and Humanism 17, 1: 81–95. Sullivan, R. Lee, 1992, ‘Spike Lee versus Mrs. Malcolm X (Licensed Product Merchandising),’ Forbes Magazine, 150: 136. Taussig, Michael, 1993, Mimesis and Alterity, New York: Routledge. Tyler, Stephen, 1998, The Unspeakable, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Wilde, Anna Day, 1995, ‘Mainstreaming Kwanzaa,’ The Public Interest, 119: 68–80. Wilkinson, Deborah M., 1996, ‘Afrocentric Marketing Is Not Just a Niche,’ Black Enterprise 26, 12: 72–7. Woodward, Kenneth and Johnson, Patrice, 1995, ‘The Advent of Kwanzaa: Will Success Spoil an African-America Fest?’ Newsweek 126, 24: 88.

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6 MORE THAN A TRADE DIASPORA Senegalese Transnational Experiences in Emilia-Romagna (Italy) Bruno Riccio

Introduction This chapter explores Senegalese participation in transnational activities based on sociocultural, religious and economic linkages with various contexts of origin in Senegal. At the beginning of the 1990s, a number of commentators argued that contemporary migrants sustained multistranded social relations that linked their societies of origin and settlement (Basch et al. 1994; Glick Schiller et al. 1992; Kearney 1995; Rouse 1991). They called this experience ‘transnationalism’ to emphasise the emergence of a social process in which migrants establish social fields that cross geographical, cultural and political borders. Transmigrants are therefore the people who ‘take actions, make decisions, and feel concerns’ within such social fields (Glick Schiller et al. 1992: ix). Many Senegalese migrants, and the Wolof Mouride in particular, can be called transmigrants under such a definition. Using an historical background to locate my material, I will show in this chapter how the Senegalese case provides a less ‘reactive’ example of transnationalism than that theorized by other scholars (e.g. Basch et al. 1994). I will show that the Senegalese trade diaspora (cf. Cohen 1969; Cohen 1997) is not simply the fruit of a reaction to global capitalism or Western racism, but also an extension of organizational solutions developed through the urbanization process within Senegal (cf. Cruise O’Brien 1988; Diop, A.B. 1981; Ebin 1996). Relying on a multi-sited ethnography (in Italy and Senegal), I will stress the relevance of migration contexts in influencing the range and depth of transnational activities, and argue 95

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against a scholarly representation of Senegalese migrants as exclusively characterized by closed socioeconomic networks. Instead I will show how, intermittently, these networks open to the economic imperatives of the receiving context. I will also describe the ambivalent experiences of trading and working on the coast of Emilia-Romagna (Italy) and the apparently contradictory narratives informing Senegalese self-representation, with the overall aim of disaggregating the so-called ‘transnational community’. The purpose is not to argue against this category as such, but to provide an ethnographic representation and a theoretical discussion able to recognize the internal tensions characterizing this ‘community’ and the plurality of trajectories emerging from Senegalese transnational spaces.

Senegalese transnationalism: the background Basch, Glick Schiller and Szanton Blanc’s first premise for a transnational approach to migration is that ‘transnational migration is inextricably linked to the changing conditions of global capitalism and must be analysed within the context of global relations between capital and labour’ (1994: 22). It is true that the restructuring of labour and social relations in the 1980s eroded the protective shield of the state and that the laissez-faire model of social policy with its reduction in welfare services dominated the industrialized world in the 1980s and the 1990s. Many agree that these processes negatively impacted on the weaker parts of societies, and especially on ‘non-citizens’. Basch and her colleagues argue that these economic and political shifts have created a displaced, underemployed labour force and made it difficult for migrants to construct secure cultural, social or economic bases within their new settings. This vulnerability has increased the likelihood that migrants will construct a transnational existence (Glick Schiller et al. 1992). Although I sympathize with this argument, I have the impression that these and other commentators sometimes assume that the development of transnationalism is essentially ‘reactive’. In contrast, if we dwell a little on the history of Mourides and internal migration in Senegal, we can see that the development of Senegalese transnationalism does not emerge simply from a reaction to shifts in global capitalism. Senegalese transmigrants mainly originate in the Groundnut Basin, and have been studied variously in the Ivory Coast (Bredeloup 1995), the USA (Ebin 1996; Perry 1997; Stoller 1996) and Southern Europe (Carter 1997; Schmidt di Friedberg 1994). Most of the Senegalese transmigrants in Italy belong to the Wolof ethnic group and to the Mouride 96

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Sufi brotherhood. The Mouride brotherhood was founded in the 1880s by Sheik Amadou Bamba and has its capital at Touba, the site of his revelation, where Mourides have constructed the largest mosque in subSaharan Africa (Ebin 1996). What is suggested in this chapter is that the brotherhood’s vertical and horizontal ties provide an organisational solution well suited to reproduction in transnational networks and a distinctive culture that effectively promotes emigration. These features often mean that the Mouride take well to organizing business, to mobility and to temporary settlement abroad. Most of them are men (94 per cent or about 30,000 in Italy) who have left their families in Senegal and many – especially those involved in trade – tend to shape a circular migratory mode and to construct transnational social networks ‘anchored’ in Senegal (Riccio 2001). Contemporary Senegal is characterized by a precarious economic and social situation and a fragile and complex equilibrium of different crosscutting cleavages. Like many African countries it has put its economy under the control of the International Monetary Fund (IMF), with little prospect of recovery (cf. Diop 1993). Senegalese religious organizations seem to be amongst the most important actors in filling the gaps produced by this difficult situation. Mouridiyya is one of the four main Sufi synchretic brotherhoods in Senegal. The other three are Tidianyya, Quadryya and Layenne. Through combining relations of personal dependence with an effective organization, it has been suggested that these brotherhoods – and the Mouride in particular – offer a solidarity system well adapted to situations of crisis (Carter 1997; Cruise O’Brien 1988; Ebin 1996). The phenomenon of Mouridism has been so central to many scholars’ research that Bayart suggests it is to political science what the Rift Valley is to geomorphology (1989, quoted in Perry 1997: 257). It would be over-ambitious to provide a synthesis of such well-documented research. Relying on my fieldwork experience, I will instead focus on the core relationship between spiritual leaders (marabouts) and disciples (talibe), which helps explain some aspects of Senegalese transmigration in Romagna and Europe. At the core of Mouride morality and organization (Diop, A.B. 1981 and Copans 1980 would call it ideology) is the relationship between the marabout (the saint and guide, ‘the one who wants’) and the talibe (disciple). Although the relationship is asymmetric, it is also reciprocal. The marabout is a spiritual guide who guarantees grace (baraka) (cf. Carter 1997; Gilsenan 1982) and through his economic and political power also provides the talibe with practical assistance. The talibe obeys and works for the marabout and his service is considered the equivalent of prayer (Cruise O’Brien 1971; Diop, A.B. 1981). This work ethic is one 97

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of the keys to the success of Senegalese migrants (Carter 1997; Ebin 1996; Schmidt di Friedberg 1994). For a migrant the blessing of the marabout is fundamentally important to the success of his enterprise. A Mouride succeeds in life thanks to his marabout; and this is why almost every member of the brotherhood is dedicated to his marabout, often giving them money and gifts (Cruise O’ Brien 1975). Still, talking about Mouridism’s relationship between marabout and talibe, one of my informants (Modou) cautiously stressed that: talibes are not obliged to give money to their marabouts, and anyway the money is used to build schools and other services . . . the marabout asks nothing of the talibe. Everything is voluntary If there is a promise from the talibe then it is the value of your word that counts, it is the fact that you do not want to lose face that links you more tightly to your marabout. (Modou, 10 August 1996) In addition to vertical solidarity between an individual and his or her marabout, there is also a horizontal solidarity between all disciples via their identification with Amadou Bamba. This organizational structure also characterizes the Mouride abroad. In particular it has resulted in a close relationship with the homeland, and in particular with Touba, the sacred capital of the order, which symbolizes Bamba on earth (Ebin 1996). During the annual ceremony of Magal many Mourides comes to Touba from overseas bearing gifts to obtain the blessing of their marabout – many transmigrants also exploit the occasion for business. Their flexible organization also assisted Mourides to settle in urban areas within Senegal. Dakar and its suburb Pikine contain almost one fifth of the total population of Senegal and close to half of the urban population (Antoine et al. 1995). Mouride rural–urban migrants in Dakar often fare better in the labour market there than even local inhabitants, as they can exploit informal and religious networks to access housing and employment (Fall 1995). The Mouride brotherhood – at first a purely rural organization – has spread to Senegalese towns, especially since independence. They failed to transplant their traditional agrarian structure, the daara, to the urban context, and instead developed a new structure – the dahira. The main element of continuity between the daara and the dajira is the marabout–talibe relationship (Cruise O’Brien 1988; Diop, M.C. 1981). There is a continuum linking the experiences of Mouride urbanization with those of Mouride transnational social formations. As Manchuelle states: 98

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African migrants in France are members of groups affected by urban migration; African migration to France is an extension of the process of (temporary) migration to African cities. (Manchuelle 1997: 217) The same can be said about Senegalese migration to Italy. It is by transferring a long-standing commercial economy (Fall 1995) and some of the organizational features that developed through internal migration (the dahira, for instance) that have enabled Senegalese migrants to shape the contemporary transnational community (cf. Koser 2001). For the Wolof, transnational social formations were already partially in the making when first they encountered the Italian receiving context.

A closed and self-sufficient system or an intermittently open process of networking? Scholars who have studied the Senegalese and particularly the Mouride ‘trading’ diaspora in France (Salem 1981; Sane 1993) and in the USA (Ebin 1992, 1996) stress the power of the self-sustaining system of networks linking ties of belonging and trade. This is an international, or better transnational, system of networks: Senior traders travel to New York, Jeddah, Hong Kong to buy wholesale goods, generally electronic and beauty products, which they re-sell, both wholesale and retail, in Senegal and in other countries. Those with less means work as street peddlers and whether in Dakar, Marseilles or New York, they deal in whatever they can sell. (Ebin 1995: 325) A trading diaspora demands a lot of organization as Abner Cohen taught us as far back as 1969 (cf. Cohen 1997: 83–104): The conduct of long-distance trade requires finding solutions to a number of basic technical problems: the regular exchange of information about the conditions of supply and demand between traders; the speedy dispatch and transport of goods, . . . the creation and maintenance of relations of trust between the large numbers of traders and intermediaries who are involved in the chain of the trade and the creation of regular credit arrangements without which the trade will not flow. (Cohen 1969: 266) 99

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Senegalese trading networks show many of these aspects. At the same time, however, in Italy they have also shown themselves to be dynamic, and to adapt to changing circumstances in both the sending and receiving contexts. One impetus for change has been increased migration from Senegal, following the devaluation of the Senegalese currency (CFA) in 1994. A new wave of migration at this time was mainly composed of the urban élite (Courade 1997), often including government officials. For many of these migrants, the apparent success of Senegalese traders already established in Europe encouraged them to emigrate. Abdou is a case in point. He found a job through his cousin, and was working in management in a hospital in Dakar. Three months after the director of the hospital left, he also left. He told me he simply could not work there any longer, that: ‘people were dying for the lack of good management’ (Abdou, September 1997). He consulted his marabout and left for Europe. The transnational circulatory model of traders’ migration influences these new kinds of migrants – migration has become ‘the thing to do’. Ideally, Abdou wants to do seasonal work in Italy, and to return at least once a year to Senegal, because he gets very homesick. Still, whenever he is at home, he looks for potential outlets to sell the variety of products he has imported from Italy, including used material, clothes, beauty products and spare parts. The whole time I was with him he was looking for business in Dakar and Kaolack (his town of origin), relying mainly on family, friendship and religious connections. Even whilst visiting his family Abdou had half an eye on business opportunities. His brotherin-law is about to retire as a Customs and Excise officer and may be interested in helping to import various products for sale in Kaolack. In other words, it is not just migration, but also trade that has become ‘the thing to do’. The point here is that there is now a plurality of trajectories within Senegalese transnational spaces. Networks based on earlier Senegalese traders have extended to include more recent migrants. The trade diaspora has evolved. It is important not to avoid reification. Basch and her colleagues seem to be aware of this when they assert that: although we have stressed that since transnationalism is an ongoing process of linkage rather than a unitary phenomenon, by applying a label we risk recreating a bounded, classless reification similar to the very construct of ‘ethnic group’ and ‘nation’. (Basch et al. 1994: 290) 100

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Another way that Senegalese trading networks display flexibility is that commercial and religious networks, although overlapping, do not coincide mechanically (Salem 1981; cf. Stoller 1996). I noticed, for example, how some Tidiane use Mourides’ networks, and Sane illustrated how the same was true but the other way round in France (Sane 1993). Other studies confirmed similarly mixed situations in other Italian towns (cf. Marchetti 1994 in Milan; Carter 1997 in Turin). Linkages of solidarity are more fluid and open among the Senegalese abroad. In addition, the divisions that are often found in Senegal are more flexible abroad, where support between co-nationals often overcomes ethnic and religious boundaries. For instance, Perry argues that in New York ‘Through engaging in day-to-day struggles, Wolofs reify their Senegalese identity while downplaying intracultural distinctions’ (Perry 1997: 249). Furthermore, these trade networks are not ‘closed communities’ with rigid boundaries as some sociologists tend to suggest (Scidà 1994). Ebin, for instance, stresses how sometimes students, tailors, or those with whitecollar jobs – in other words not just traders – also rely on trade networks to supplement their income (Ebin 1996). Furthermore, Senegalese networks are not even always exclusively Senegalese. Two examples demonstrate how they can also encapsulate local Italians. Ousmane organizes shipments between Italy and Senegal, renting space in containers to Senegalese traders, other than a small area that he maintains for his own trade in second-hand clothes. Whenever he can he tries to obtain appropriate documentation, for example from Italian priests or NGOs, to testify that his shipments are for a charitable cause, thus avoiding customs taxes. Ousmane’s profits are used by his brother in Senegal, in part to support his family there and in part to invest in a chicken farm. Modou owed money to his brother-in-law who takes care of his family in Senegal and he repaid it by borrowing from his tutor on a training course in Italy. He used the loan to buy hardware that another trader imported into Senegal and which was supplied to his brother-in-law’s shop. In both examples, personal networks which include Italians (the priest, the tutor) are used to facilitate trade. Once again the message is that transnationalism is more appropriately conceived as practices of multistranded networking rather than as a closed system of networks. Another issue arising from these observations is the significance of the local receiving context for the scope and depth of migrants’ transnational practices. Through a comparison of the same transnational group in two different localities (Rimini and Ravenna), my fieldwork revealed how the specific local context for migration plays a crucial role in facilitating, constraining and channelling transnational organization. To summarize 101

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the comparison between these provinces it is worth drawing in a loose and illustrative way on Wallman’s ‘homogeneous/heterogeneous’ model (1986). Rimini represents the homogeneous ‘type’, with an economic structure focused almost entirely on tourism and where the street selling carried out by the Senegalese is commonly perceived as threatening the wealth of the community, which is based mainly on the activities of traders and merchants. Here their status as irregular traders makes the Senegalese very unpopular (Maher 1996), and an easy scapegoat for Italian traders’ complaints. Since 1989 there have been racist attacks and demonstrations in Rimini, particularly targeting recent immigrants. These have tended to peak during the summer, when competition is most intense in the tourist economy. Different aspects – migration, irregular trade, criminality – have become conflated in the public perception of the Senegalese, despite the scientific demystification of many assumptions about the supposed threat from immigrants (Riccio 1999). Ravenna provides a more plural economic structure (industry, agriculture, tourism and trade), which is more resilient to socioeconomic changes. Here, what Grillo (1985) would call an ‘institutional complex’ of linked organizations began to develop in response to the needs of new immigrants (reception, information, accommodation), and public policy is actively stimulating entrepreneurship amongst the Senegalese. Indeed, a recent phenomenon has been the implementation back in Senegal of micro-projects conceived and supported in Italy. At the moment Senegalese transnationalism exists at the macro-level through religion (cf. Werbner 1999) and the micro-level through trade and other transnational activities. The potential for a meso-level of transnationalism (as conceived by Smith and Guarnizo 1998 and Smith 1998), exists in these embryonic transnational projects. Given the local context, their institutionalization seems more likely at the moment in Ravenna than in Rimini.

Disaggregating the transnational community: ambivalent experiences of trading and working on the coast of Emilia-Romagna A further step away from reification and towards the disaggregation of the ‘transnational community’ is closer analysis of the ambivalent experiences of Senegalese who trade and work on the coast of Emilia-Romagna. Newcomers often find themselves slotting into an established trading system, in which wholesalers readily supply products for sale and even provide hints on strategies for street selling. Describing his arrival the 102

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province of Ravenna, Ousmane told me: ‘ . . . someone said “either you go selling or you look for a job, but because you don’t have any documents selling is your only option” ’ (Ousmane, 27 September 1996). For many there is no alternative to trade, nevertheless it is important to differentiate between the motivations of Senegalese traders. Referring to his fieldwork in Turin, Carter explains that: The traders are distinguished both by the articles they sell and the manner in which their trade is practised. Those that trade in articles of European manufacture are often the most peripheral to the ‘African market’, as the petty trade is called by its practitioners; many selling such articles as sunglasses, cassette tapes, and watches buy these articles in Italian discount stores and sell them on the street in order to make a quite modest living while attempting to find other work. These traders are only transitory and would prefer other forms of work, while some traders selling more expensive watches and jewellery are really traders proper and often have a background in Senegal or elsewhere involving a similar trade. (Carter 1997: 75) For some people trade can also be an important source of identity. During my fieldwork I interviewed a street/beach seller who is also a proud Mouride. He had given up four jobs that ‘did not work with’ him: one was too far away, and another involved a difficult family relationship. Still he wanted to trade: ‘you see there are people who are keen to trade and others who are keen to do other things . . . I am keen to trade’ (M’Baye, 13 August 1996). In contrast, other Senegalese would prefer not to trade. Moussa, for example, explained to me: ‘I am not a trader and I do not like it. Some people here are virtually begging for money. I can’t do that’ (Moussa, 19 September 1996). Still he was obliged to trade, having no other options, and admitted that he was not a good trader – he could not even speak Italian. Momadou in Rimini provides another example. He had never traded before and at first walked around without even opening the bag, such was the shame he felt. Eventually his solution was to sit in one place, but even then he found it difficult that occasionally people would give some spare change. He found the indignity hard to bear. Malick, one of the first Senegalese in Rimini, also started off street selling. Like Mamadou he also felt uncomfortable walking around and bothering tourists and he also opted for the strategy of a fixed pitch. Nowadays, however, this strategy is becoming risky, because of increasing police patrols. 103

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Increasing risks mean that many Senegalese are looking for alternatives to trade (Riccio 1999). Adama told me that in his opinion: ‘Employment is more secure and far-sighted. If the police confiscate your products twice you are ruined’ (Adama, 7 September 1997). Most who do find jobs rely on Senegalese contacts. Sheik is an exception. He escaped what he described as ‘a difficult situation’ with the help of an Italian friend, who had connections with a trade union and used these to find him a job. Adama says that his colleagues at work particularly admire his determination to improve his situation and his efforts to foster good relationships within the work environment. Abdou also has a good relationship with his boss, who recognizes that he is a good worker. He is saving to start up an import–export business – he is preparing to become a transnational businessman. But Adama and Abdou’s experiences at work are exceptional. Many more Senegalese are critical of what they perceive as their exploitation at work. For instance, Moma worked on a building site in Rimini for three years. His boss regularly underpaid him for the hours he worked, and often did not pay him at all when he worked on Saturdays. Bara started off as a street seller, but received a resident’s permit in a regularization round. He has worked in several factories. His first boss was ‘OK’ but his assistant was patronizing and exploitative; his second boss was ‘very good’ but unreliable when it came to salaries. He explained apologetically that: In Senegal it is different from here, many people rely on your salary. That is why we can’t get used to waiting months before being paid. In my last job this was a problem and other Senegalese left the job. I stayed because I am forty, and I have to put up with the hard times. (Bara, 13 August 1997) Exploitation at work is one of the main reasons why many Senegalese still prefer trading: ‘if they are to make miserable earnings with long hours and no insurance at another job, they might as well be selfemployed, unsupervised peddlers’ (Zinn 1994: 60). Many also derive a sense of pride from being independent. The famous quote by one of the migrants interviewed by the Comaroffs – ‘I struggle, but I call no one “boss”’ (1987: 192) – applies equally to Senegalese traders. Another distinction that can be made in the complex world of Senegalese traders is between the young and the old. In general the young take more risks, while elder traders are more discrete. Byram explained that the young: ‘want more, and overall they want to sell products to be proud of and not be confused with people asking for charity’ (Byram, 104

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August 1997). In addition, some of young are willing to diversify, and not just to trade in clothes and African handicrafts: Business has changed. Before the only thing you dreamed of was opening a shop in Sandaga where everyone sell clothes. Now it is different, these kinds of shop are failing and the young migrants coming from cities do more constructive things. I have opened a typography business . . . other friends have small fishing companies in Senegal. These are initiatives that really help the country. (Alioune, February 2000) Saidou, who comes from Dakar and has been in Italy since 1987, similarly likes to distinguish himself. He stresses that he is into ‘high quality’ trade: his wares range from quality ‘traditional crafts’ to hi-fi, and he tries original techniques for selling them. He told me that: to trade traditional art is difficult . . . how can one give a price to a piece of art. It is not the size which counts but the quality . . . Selling is an art in itself, for example in a big market if I put up a big tidy stall with all the pieces in their place, as many do, it does not work very well; whereas if I display the products in a poor but original manner people, tourists especially, are interested and more attracted. (Saidou, 14 August 1996) Indeed, trade is an art for many Senegalese who deploy a variety of strategies, such as reducing prices during ‘sales’. Often their strategies copy common commercial techniques in Italy. Just like the Punjabi peddlers in Britain in the 1930s described by the Ballards (1977), ‘skilful manipulation of prices and credit’ are an ‘essential part of the peddler’s technique’ (p. 28). Romeo, as they call him, is loved by local customers because he speaks the local dialect (Romagnolo) fluently. His technique effectively is to ‘seduce’ his customers by ‘marketing’ his African origins in an Italian style. For many other young Senegalese the art of adjusting their images depending on their audience is not so easy. Romeo’s pride in his job contrasts with the fear that others experience (cf. Kouma 1990). Badou, an undocumented new arrival in 1997, had a difficult beginning. He headed straight for the coast and was shocked: ‘The first days I went to the sea; people were tense because of the police checks. I did not sell anything. I was scared because if the police caught me I could be sent back to Senegal immediately’ (Badou, 16 August 1997). 105

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One final source of ambivalence in the experiences of Senegalese traders in Italy derives from the contrast between independence and autonomy, and solidarity and interdependence. Despite strong social linkages, Senegalese peddlers tend to work independently. They may share apartments and cars and travel around the region together, but they tend not to share the costs or profits of their individual businesses. This does not mean that reciprocal solidarity does not exist among sellers, but that ‘in selling everyone plays his own game’ (Catanzaro et al. 1996). This analysis is supported by research in Senegal, where the sociologist Ndyaye contends that the modou modou (migrant peddlers) symbolize the emergence of a modern mentality which considers individual success as a social value and the economic competition as an opportunity but not a threat (Ndiaye 1998). In Italy this spirit of entrepreneurial individualism coexists with and is even embedded within a communal code that stresses social solidarity (Campus et al. 1992; Schmidt di Friedberg 1994; Scidà 1994). Bredeloup (1995) shows in her study of Senegalese migrants in the Ivory Coast that they too tend to waver between communalism and individualism. On the one hand, Momadou boasts about solidarity among the Senegalese and the way they look after one another – they are: ‘different from other African groups, which are more likely to be exploited’ (Momadou, July 1996). On the other hand, he complains that his friends always need loans and have not learned to stand on their own two feet. Khadim told me a story which demonstrates similar ambiguity. Perry argues that ‘notions of Islam and reciprocity embody immigrants’ emotional struggles against hardship and separation, while empowering them in these very struggles’ (1997: 248). Similarly, Schmidt di Friedberg argues that personal ambitions for the Senegalese can only be realized through the group (family, village, brotherhood) and therefore that ‘it is within and for the group that the Senegalese looks for his personal success’ (1994: 89). My fieldwork suggests, in contrast, that these tendencies co-exist with an orientation towards achieving autonomy from the group. Interdependence (reciprocity, mutual aid, solidarity, ndimbellante) is important, but overlaps and sometimes may conflict with a personal desire for independence. Borrowing Sorensen’s distinction between the ‘migratory legend’ and ‘individual migration narratives’ (Sorensen 1998: 247), we may conclude for the Senegalese that as well as a dominant legend of solidarity one may also encounter individual narratives of autonomy that only partially fit the ‘master’ narrative.

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Conclusion A superficial approach to Mouridism has helped to develop a stereotypical image that does not correspond with reality. The Mouride brotherhood is often seen as a mysterious organization controlling a large population and managing – almost like the Mafia – trade and migration. Closer analysis, such as that by Perry, has shown in contrast that in fact: Senegalese cohere in an informal, non bureaucratic way. Through ‘networking,’ Wolofs are connected via an unbounded series of spontaneous, dyadic links. These affective and instrumental ties are often not conductive to more permanent, institutionalised forms of organization. Rather, they are conducive to the rapid spread of practical knowledge such as where to go to buy cheap or counterfeit goods . . . or how to evade arrest, or where to find an apartment. (Perry 1997: 246) Behind Senegalese street selling there is a great deal of organization, but not a hidden or mysterious organization. This chapter has extended further analysis of the Senegalese trade diaspora and its organization. It has articulated a less ‘reactive’ form of transnational organization than that conceived of by some other scholars. It has stressed the plurality of the transnational organization, and that there are multiple ways to be a transmigrant. Transnationalism, at least in the Senegalese case, is better conceived as constant networking within transnational spaces, rather than reified transnational networks. Transnational migration encompasses differing practices rather than being an homogeneous system. Co-nationals tend to overcome religious and ethnic differences in a foreign country and some of them, although relying on communal networks, also try to shape other networks in the receiving context. Clearly, process, context and multiplicity emerge as key concepts in opposing reified and often racist representations and in making sense of transnationalism within this new African diaspora.

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Basch, L., Glick Schiller, N. and Szanton-Blanc, C., 1994, Nations Unbound: Transnational Projects, Postcolonial Predicaments, and Deterritorialized Nation-States, New York Gordon and Breach. Bayart, J.F., 1989, L’Etat en Afrique. La politique du ventre, Paris: Fayard. Bredeloup, S., 1995, ‘Sénégalais en Côte-d’Ivoire, Sénégalais de Côte-d’Ivoire’, Mondes en Développement, 23, 91: 13–30. Campus, A., Mottura G. and Perrone G., 1992, ‘I Senegalesi’, in Mottura, G. (ed.) L’arcipelago immigrazioni. Caratteristiche e modelli migratori dei lavoratori stranieri in Italia, Roma: Ediesse. Catanzaro, R., Nelken, D., Belotti, V. (1996) ‘Un posto per vendere. I commercianti ambulanti irregolari sulla riviera emiliano-romagnola’, Sociologia del Lavoro, 64: 85–119. Carter, D.M., 1997, States of Grace: Senegalese in Italy and the New European Immigration, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Cohen, A., 1969, ‘Cultural Strategies in the Organization of Trading Diasporas’, in Meillassoux, C. (ed.) The Development of Indigenous Trade and Markets in West Africa, International African Institute, London: Oxford University Press. Cohen, R., 1997, Global Diasporas. An Introduction, London: UCL Press. Comaroff, J.L. and Comaroff, J., 1987, ‘The Madman and the Migrant: Work and Labor in the Historical Consciousness of a South African People’, American Ethnologist, 14. Copans, J., 1980, Les Marabouts de l’arachide: la conrérie mouride et les paysans du Sénégal, Paris: Le Sycomore. Courade, G., 1997, ‘Des papiers et des hommes: l’épreuve des politiques d’endiguement’, Politique Africaine, 67: 3–30. Cruise O’Brien, D.B., 1971, The Mourides of Senegal: The Political and Economic Organisation of an Islamic Brotherhood, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Cruise O’Brien, D.B., 1975, Saints and Politicians: Essays in the Organization of a Senegalese Peasant Society, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cruise O’Brien, D.B., 1988, ‘Charisma Comes to Town: Mouride Urbanization 1945–1989’, in Cruise O’Brien, D.B. and Coulon, C., Charisma and Brotherhoods in African Islam, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Diop, A.B., 1981, La Société Wolof. Les Systemes d’Inegalité et de Domination, Paris: Karthala. Diop, M.C., 1981, ‘Fonctions et activités des dahira mourides urbains’, Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines, 21, 81–83: 79–91. Diop, M.C. (ed.), 1993, Senegal: Essays in Statecraft, Dakar: CODESRIA. Ebin, V., 1992, ‘A la recherche de nouveaux “poissons”. Stratégies commerciales mourides par temps de crise’, Politique Africaine, 45: 86–99. Ebin, V., 1995, ‘International Networks of a Trading Diaspora: The Mourides of Senegal Abroad’, in Antoine, P. and Diop, A.B. (eds) La Ville à guichets fermés? Itiineéraires, réseaux et insertion urbaine, Dakar: IFAN – ORSTOM. Ebin, V., 1996, ‘Making Room Versus Creating Space: The Construction of Spatial Categories by Itinerant Mouride Traders’, in Metcalf, B.D. (ed.) Making Muslim Space in North America and Europe, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Fall, A.S., 1995, ‘Relations à distance des migrants et réseaux d’insertion à Dakar’, in Antoine, P. and Diop, A.B. (eds) La Ville à guichets fermés? Itiineéraires, réseaux et insertion urbaine, Dakar: IFAN – ORSTOM. Gilsenan, M., 1982, Recognizing Islam, London: Croom Helm. Glick Schiller, N., Basch, L. and Szanton-Blanc, C., 1992, Toward a Transnational Perspective on Migration, New York: New York Academy of Science. Grillo, R.D., 1985, Ideologies and Institutions in Urban France, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gueye, C., 1997, ‘Touba: les marabouts urbanisants’, in Bertrand, M. and Debresson, A. (eds) Petites et moyennes villes d’Afrique noire, Paris: Karthala. Kearney, M., 1995, ‘The Local and the Global: Anthropology of Globalization and Transnationalism’, Annual Review of Anthropology, 24: 547–65. Koser, K., 2001, ‘From Refugees To Transnational Communities: The Implications of War and Peace in Eritrea for the Diaspora in the UK and Germany’, in Koser, K. and Al-Ali, N. New Approaches to Migration? Transnational Communities and the Transformation of Home, Routledge, London. Kouma, P., 1990, Io venditore di elefanti, Milan: Garzanti. Maher, V., 1996 ‘Immigration and Social Identities’, in Forgacs, D. and Lumley, R. (eds) Italian Cultural Studies. An Introduction, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Manchuelle, F., 1997, Willing Migrants. Soninke Labor Diasporas, 1848–1960, Athens: Ohio University Press. Marchetti, A., 1994, ‘La nuova immigrazione a Milano. Il caso senegalese’, in IRER, Tra due rive. La nuova immigrazione a Milano, Milan: Franco Angeli. Ndiaye, M., 1998, L’Ethique Ceddo et la socité d’accaparement, vol. 2, Les Moodu Moodu, Dakar: Presses Universitaires de Dakar. Perry, D.L., 1997, ‘Rural Ideologies and Urban Imaginings: Wolof Immigrants in New York City’, Africa Today, 44, 2. Riccio, B., 1999, ‘Senegalese Street-Sellers, Racism and the Discourse on “Irregular Trade” in Rimini’, Modern Italy, 4, 2. Riccio, B., 2001, ‘Senegal is our Home: The Anchored Nature of Senegalese Transnational Networks’, in Koser, K. and Al-Ali, N. (eds) New Approaches to Migration? Transnational Communities and the Transformation of Home, Routledge, London. Rouse, R., 1991, ‘Mexican Migration and the Social Space of Postmodernism’, Diaspora 1, 1. Salem, G., 1981, ‘De la brousse sénégalaise au Boul’ Minch: le système commercial mouride en France’, Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines, 81–83. Sane, I., 1993, De l’économie informelle au commerce international: les reseaux des marchands ambulants senegalais en France, Université Lumière Lyon II: Thèse pour le doctorat de sociologie et sciences sociales. Schmidt di Friedberg, O., 1994, Islam, solidarietà e lavoro. I muridi senegalesi in Italia, Turin: Edizioni della Fondazione Agnelli. Scidà, G., 1994, ‘Fra carisma e clientelismo: una confraternita musulmana in migrazione’, Studi Emigrazione/Etudes Migrations, XXXI, 113. Smith, M.P. and Guarnizo, L.E. (eds), 1998, Transnationalism From Below, New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers.

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Smith, R.C., 1998, ‘Transnational Localities: Community, Technology and the Politics of Membership within the Context of Mexico and U.S. Migration’, in Smith, M.P. and Guarnizo, L.E. (eds) Transnationalism From Below, New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers. Sorensen, N.N., 1998, ‘Narrating Identity Across Dominican Worlds’, in Smith, M.P. and Guarnizo, L.E. (eds) Transnationalism From Below, New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers. Stoller, P., 1996, ‘Spaces, Places and Fields. The Politics of West African Trading in New York City’s Informal Economy’, American Anthropologists, 98, 4. Wallman, S., 1986, ‘Ethnicity and the Boundary Process in Context’, in Rex, J. and Mason, D. (eds) Theory of Race and Ethnic Relations, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Werbner, P., 1999, ‘Global Pathways. Working Class Cosmopolitans and the Creation of Transnational Ethnic Worlds’, Social Anthropology, 7, 1. Zinn, D.L., 1994, ‘The Senegalese Immigrants in Bari. What Happens When the Africans Peer Back’, in Benmayor, R. and Skotnes, A. (eds) Migration and Identity, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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7 MOBILIZING NEW AFRICAN DIASPORAS An Eritrean Case Study Khalid Koser

Introduction The peace settlement signed between Eritrea and Ethiopia in November 2000 appears to be lasting. The Eritro-Ethiopian conflict raged intermittently for two years, has cost both countries tens of thousands of lives, and displaced hundreds of thousands of people (Negash and Tronvoll 2000). It has also placed severe economic strains upon both of these poor countries, exacerbated in Ethiopia by drought and famine, and in Eritrea by the fact that this new country had only just begun to recover from a thirty-year struggle for independence from Ethiopia, which ended just seven years before the resumption of hostilities (Clapham 1998). Coinciding unintentionally with the period of the recent conflict, the author has been conducting research originally intended to focus on the participation of the Eritrean diaspora in the UK and Germany in the postconflict reconstruction of their home country.1 The research planned to explore the range of contributions which overseas nationals can make to development and reconstruction without permanently returning, and to analyse obstacles to their participation. The changing conditions in Eritrea have inevitably changed the emphasis of the research. One particularly significant consequence has been vigorous efforts by the Eritrean Government (and also the Ethiopian Government) to mobilize the diaspora to support and fund the conflict. Drawing on interviews conducted between 1998 and 2000 with Eritrean Government representatives both inside and outside Eritrea, and within the Eritrean diaspora in Germany and the UK, this chapter critically analyses the Eritrean Government’s efforts. First it explains how and why the Government has tried to 111

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mobilize support within the diaspora. Shifting the focus to the perspectives of members of the diaspora, it then asks to what extent this strategy has been a success. The theme that pervades this chapter is continuity and change. An overview of the relationship between the Eritrean Government and overseas nationals before the recent conflict shows how close links between the two already existed – in this sense the activities of the Government during the conflict have simply built upon existing links. What has changed, however, has been the intensity of the demands made on the diaspora, and a growing resentment among the diaspora of the requests being made. Drawing broader lessons from the Eritrean case study, the Conclusion suggests that African states need to be ‘responsible states’ if they are successfully to mobilize diasporas.

The Eritrean diaspora The focus of this chapter is refugees who fled during Eritrea’s struggle for independence, between 1961 and 1991, and sought asylum in Europe. Many refugees were also displaced to neighbouring countries, especially Sudan (Bascom 1998). In contrast, relatively few Eritrean (or Ethiopian) refugees have been generated by the recent conflict with Ethiopia. However, it is estimated that over 60,000 Eritreans have been expelled from Ethiopia since the beginning of the conflict. In addition, some 250,000 Eritreans have been internally displaced from border areas (ERREC 1999). There are no accurate data on the size of the Eritrean diaspora in Europe or North America. The main reason is that they were registered upon arrival in most host countries as ‘Ethiopians’ (until 1991 the territory of Eritrea was formally a province of Ethiopia), and very few censuses have yet disaggregated Eritrean refugees from Ethiopian refugees. One indicator is the voting figures for the 1993 Referendum for Independence. According to these data, a total of 84,370 votes were cast by Eritreans outside Eritrea (Referendum Commission of Eritrea 1993). They indicate that the most significant host countries for Eritrean refugees are Saudi Arabia (37,785), the USA and Canada (14,941) and Germany (6,994). Most sources do not dispute assertions by the Eritrean Constitutional Commission that the turn out for the referendum was over 98 per cent (Styan 1993). Nevertheless, these data almost certainly significantly underestimate the true size of the Eritrean diaspora because they only cover Eritreans eligible to vote, that is over eighteen years of age. In addition, the data are by now some ten years out of date, and the vast majority of Eritrean refugees outside the African continent have remained abroad. 112

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Eritrean community leaders in the UK, for example, suggest that there are between 20,000 and 25,000 Eritreans currently living there. In Europe there were broadly three main waves of arrivals of Eritrean refugees during the struggle for independence. The first was in the mid1970s, and coincided with the deposition of Haile Selassie and the accession of the Derg (military committee) in Ethiopia in 1974. Respondents report that the Derg transformed intermittent harassment of Eritreans into systematic imprisonment and persecution. Many Eritreans fled initially to Sudan, from where resettlement programmes brought them to various countries during the mid-1970s, including the USA, Canada, Germany, the UK and Sweden. The second wave occurred in the year after the so-called ‘Red Star Campaign’, which launched the largest attack by Ethiopia and involved some 90,000 Ethiopian soldiers (Connell 1997). The final major wave arrived at the end of the 1980s, as the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF ) launched a sustained series of attacks that were to culminate in 1991 with victory. Many Eritreans who arrived at this stage came as ‘unaccompanied minors’ (that is unaccompanied children under the age of eighteen).

Existing links between the Eritrean diaspora and the Eritrean state Recent efforts by the Eritrean Government to mobilize overseas nationals have built upon a long-standing tradition for the Eritrean diaspora to contribute to the state. During the struggle for independence, Eritreans in the diaspora were mobilized by the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF) to campaign and increase public awareness in their host countries, and to raise money to pay for the costs of the war and of relief and welfare services in the liberated areas. Mobilization occurred through a tightly administered system of ‘mass organizations’. The EPLF also ran an NGO network – the Eritrean Relief Association (ERA) – targeted on raising money among NGOs and other donors in host countries. After Independence, both of these networks of offices were disbanded and, in their place, local community organizations were established. Consequently, links between the diaspora and the new state have developed in two new ways. The first has been political. The most obvious example of a political link was participation in the 1993 Referendum for Independence, in which, as explained above, the vast majority of Eritreans in the diaspora eligible to vote did so. After the referendum, overseas nationals were also closely involved with the drafting of Eritrea’s Constitution, and its ratification in 1997. The diaspora had formal representation in the Assembly of the Constitutional Committee, amounting 113

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to six out of the total of fifty members. Three separate drafts were circulated to Eritrean communities overseas (as well as within Eritrea), and on each occasion feedback was invited and incorporated into the next draft. According to the President of the Assembly, the contribution of the diaspora was central both to the constitutional process, but also to the final wording of several parts of the Constitution. The Constitution guarantees multi-party elections, although these have not yet been held. If and when they are held, the Constitution also guarantees the right of the diaspora to vote. The second significant link between the diaspora and the Eritrean state has been economic. Since Independence, every adult Eritrean in the diaspora has been asked to pay 2 per cent of their annual incomes to the Eritrean state. This rate applies across the entire diaspora, and includes the unemployed and all social categories. Even though it is voluntary, every respondent in this research stated that they pay this contribution, and none – not even those in open opposition to the current Government (the People’s Front for Democracy and Justice [PFDJ]) – seemed to resent paying. Most Eritreans view the tax not as a burden, but rather as a duty towards their homeland. When I asked one respondent, Taza in Berlin, if he ever thought of missing a payment, he responded: ‘No, because then I would be declaring that I am not an Eritrean.’

Mobilizing the diaspora during conflict Since the beginning of the recent conflict, the Eritrean Government has made clear efforts to intensify its links with the diaspora. This has been taking place in three main ways, and it remains an ongoing process. First, the Government has moved to re-open political offices, which had been closed upon Independence, in the principal countries for the diaspora – USA, Germany and Saudi Arabia. Senior members of Government were dispatched to – and remain in – these offices. In other host countries the Ministry of Foreign Affairs instructed embassies and consulates to conduct censuses within the diaspora, to establish a demographic profile and especially a profile of skills and qualifications within the diaspora. Second, the Eritrean Relief Association network, which was again effectively disbanded upon Independence, began to be revitalized, although under a series of new names – the Eritrean Development Fund in the USA, Eritrea Hilfswerk in Germany and Citizens for Peace in Canada. Third, the Government initiated an information campaign within the diaspora. One method has been through visits to host countries by Government representatives – for example to attend the annual Eritrean festival in Frankfurt. 114

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In his analysis of the attempts of the Mexican state to develop links with Mexican immigrants in the USA, Robert C. Smith characterizes the process as one of the ‘institutionalization’ of the diaspora. He suggests three reasons. One reason is simply to tap the wealth of the migrants, a second is to try to establish control over autonomous political linkages which have grown between civil society in Mexico and the migrants, and a third is to ‘channel, co-opt and reorganise the disaffected energies of Mexicans in the United States’ (Smith 1998: 224). Smith’s analysis provides a useful framework for analysing the way that the Eritrean state intensified its links with the diaspora for the duration of the conflict with Ethiopia. Financial contributions The diaspora’s financial contribution has been needed not only to help pay for the rising costs of an army engaged in a protracted conflict, but also to provide relief and assistance to those Eritreans who have been expelled from Ethiopia since the conflict began, to the internally displaced in Eritrea, and to as many as 250,000 other families affected in other ways by the war, for example through the absence of productive members of the household (ERREC 1999). Eritrea’s dependence on the diaspora has been exacerbated by the Government’s deep suspicion of foreign aid (McSpadden 1999). The Government has sought financial contributions from the diaspora in a number of ways. Most directly, the contributions already being asked of the diaspora have been increased. Eritreans in the UK were asked to contribute an additional £1 per day, plus a one-off annual payment of £500 for 1999. In Germany, in December 1998 the rate of 2 per cent was raised for one month to 10 per cent, there was a request for a one-off payment of DM1000, and Eritreans were also asked to contribute an additional DM30 per month. As another way of raising money, the Government issued bonds for the first time in Eritrea at the beginning of 1999. There were seven types, which ranged in duration from three to ten years, and in cost from US$300 to US$1,000. According to the termination date, interest rates varied from 3.5 to 3.69 per cent. The Economic Advisor to the President estimated in July 1999 that already some US$20 million worth of bonds had been purchased in North America, US$20 million in Europe and US$15 million in the Middle East. Two other strategies have been even more recently adopted by the state. The first has been to auction housing plots in Asmara, the capital city of Eritrea. There is a severe housing shortage in Eritrea, which has 115

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been one of several factors that have precluded larger-scale return by overseas Eritreans. Over the last few years the municipality of Asmara has built several housing estates, and it is houses in these estates that are now being auctioned. It is reported that most of these houses have been purchased by members of the Eritrean diaspora. At the same time, interviews with Eritreans in the UK indicate that these houses will largely be used as holiday homes, rather than providing the basis for a decision to return more permanently. Similarly, the state has also begun to auction land outside Asmara. This is a significant initiative, as one of the first actions of the state after Independence was to nationalize all land. The decision now to sell at least some land into private hands is one indication of the urgency for the state to attract overseas investment. Controlling autonomous political linkages While overseas nationals have been involved in formal political processes such as the Referendum and the Constitution, it has clearly not been possible for the state to exert the same political control over these nationals as it does over those living within Eritrea’s borders. There is a marked contrast between the lack of public criticism of the Government within Eritrea, and the quite open debate that takes place within communities outside Eritrea. A recent trend of some concern to the Eritrean state has been the evolution of critical autonomous links between Eritreans in the diaspora and those living at home. These links are based on regular return visits by many in the Eritrean diaspora and by regular telephone calls. But perhaps the most significant development, and one that is particularly hard for the state to regulate, has been the gradual evolution of Internet linkages. The most important link has been established through the e-mail discussion group DEHAI. The group was founded in 1992 by five Eritreans in the USA. By 1998 membership had grown to 4,000, an average of 523 e-mails were being posted each month, and e-mails were being read over 80,000 times per month. Initially DEHAI’s membership was focused on the West Coast of the USA, but within a year its members were widely spread throughout the USA, in Canada, and across Europe. While Internet access in Eritrea remains limited, it is expanding rapidly. The increasing importance of DEHAI, and increasing access to the information from the e-mail discussion group in Eritrea, have challenged the ability of the Government of Eritrea to exert political control over its citizens at home. DEHAI’s archives provide two good examples. The first occurred in March 1999, when, it is agreed by all international observers, Eritrea suffered a heavy defeat by Ethiopia at the Badme border. The 116

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Government of Eritrea has never formally acknowledged this defeat, however immediately after Badme DEHAI recorded its highest number of e-mails in any single week since its inception, focused on the thread ‘Are we losing the war?’ In the second example, criticism from Eritreans overseas actually influenced Government policy. In March 1998, an Eritrean journalist, Ruth Simon, who was at the time a ‘stringer’ for a French press agency, was imprisoned in Asmara after writing reports critical of the Government. Her imprisonment resulted in an intense period of debate and criticism on DEHAI. A senior official at the Ministry of Justice told me during an interview in 1999 that criticism on DEHAI had been an important factor in the decision to release the journalist. Just as was found in Smith’s Mexican case study, it seems that another reason why the Government in Eritrea has been re-engaging with the diaspora is to attempt to influence – if not control – criticism from within the diaspora which has the potential to influence people in Eritrea too. This is particularly important in the context of the recent conflict, in which propaganda proved to be a crucial weapon for the Eritrean state, especially in uniting Eritreans against what was portrayed as aggression from neighbouring Ethiopia. Channelling the energies of the diaspora A third reason for ‘re-engaging’ with the Eritreans in the diaspora has been to mobilize them as a vehicle to represent and further Eritrea’s cause during and after the conflict. The main way this has been done is through financial collections. On a formal basis, the ERA network has been revitalized primarily in order to raise money among host country NGOs. In the UK, for example, ERA is currently planning a nation-wide campaign. Less formally, many local Eritrean community organizations have been raising money through hosting events such as concerts and poetry recitals, as well as organizing street collections. On an individual basis several respondents have organized jumble sales and car boot sales in their neighbourhoods or at local schools. Besides sending money directly to Eritrea, there have been several cases where Eritreans have also used the money they have collected to buy medicines to send back to the homeland. Eritreans in the diaspora have been rather less successful in championing Eritrea’s cause either through bringing political pressure to bear on their host governments, or through raising the profile of the conflict and its consequences among host populations and media. On 26 March 1999 a series of ‘Demonstrations for Peace’ took place in assorted cities in 117

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Europe and North America. In Frankfurt the march attracted only 200 Eritreans (from a local population of some 10,000), and received no media coverage at all. Reports from three other cities in Germany indicate that marches there were no more successful. It seems that Eritrean communities in the USA are generally better organized than those in Europe and recently a letter-writing campaign has been launched on an Eritrean web site. This site automatically identifies the name and address of the local congressman, and provides for downloading and signature a letter demanding pressure to be placed on Ethiopia to pay compensation for the Eritreans who have been expelled.

Diaspora–state linkages: continuity and change It is clear from the preceding analysis that in the short term – covering the period of the conflict – the Eritrean state has successfully mobilized the diaspora. Now that the conflict is over, however, there is an emerging sense within the diaspora of disillusionment with the Eritrean state. The impression is that the diaspora united to support the defence of its homeland, but that now that immediate goal has been achieved it has an opportunity to express its criticisms and even resentment of the Government’s conduct during the conflict. As Eritrea turns towards the next stage in its cycle of war and peace – post-conflict reconstruction once more – this is potentially very significant, as the state inevitably will need to rely on the continuing support of the diaspora. The exacerbation of political differences There have always been political differences within Eritrea and the diaspora, which have coalesced around three main bases. First, there remain some supporters of the Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF), the force which began the struggle for independence, but was then effectively replaced by the EPLF (Connell 1997). Second, there remains a perception among Muslim Eritreans both within and outside the country that Christians dominate the current Government to the detriment of the rights of Muslims. Third, another common perception is that Government is also dominated by ethnic groups of the Eritrean Highlands, and largely excludes others of Eritrea’s nine principal ethnic groups. Until the beginning of the recent conflict, however, the motivations of such groups actively to oppose the PFDJ Government have been limited. It is striking to observe, for example, that even though several respondents 118

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admitted being members of opposition groups, they still paid their 2 per cent contribution to the Eritrean state. As one respondent said: ‘This may not be the right Government, but it’s still right for us to support our country. Our time will come.’ The conflict appears to have provided the catalyst needed to mobilize opposition – although this has still only been the case outside Eritrea. For example, the previously splintered opposition groups have now coalesced around a single party – the Alliance of Eritrean National Forces. And their activities, for example in attending community meetings and participating in DEHAI’s discussion groups, seem to have increased. One reason why PFDJ opponents have become more active has been their impression that many Eritreans – even those who support the Government – have been sceptical about the objectives of the conflict. This impression has largely been confirmed in interviews with respondents who have always been Government sympathizers, but who have been quick to see through the propaganda and regularly describe the conflict as a ‘waste of time’ and a ‘waste of lives’. Perhaps the most concrete example of this growing disillusionment has arisen over the additional payments being asked of the diaspora. At a community meeting in Berlin, a majority of those who attended stated openly that while they were willing to contribute to the costs of rebuilding Eritrea after Independence, they were much less willing to pay for war. The overall impression has been that many in the diaspora have paid additional contributions in order to protect their nation, but that in the aftermath of the conflict their attitudes towards the Government have become more critical. Confirming a perception of ‘exploitation’ Disillusionment among its supporters is arguably a more serious consideration for the Eritrean Government than the mobilization of its opponents. Nevertheless, another way in which the Government’s activities during the conflict have increased this sense of disillusionment has been to confirm for many a notion that they are in effect being ‘exploited’ by the Government. Despite the evolution of economic and political links with the Eritrean state, many Eritreans in the diaspora feel that the Government of Eritrea has deliberately distanced itself from them since Independence. They feel that the Government has viewed their economic contributions as purely functional, and their participation in the Referendum and Constitution merely as formalities, and they feel that they have been denied the opportunity fully to participate in the development of the new state. 119

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These feelings can best be understood in the context of the very close co-operation between the EPLF and the diaspora during the ‘struggle’. To a large extent these perceptions are accurate. Government representatives admit that after Independence it became a deliberate policy to encourage the autonomy of the diaspora: When we won Independence, suddenly there didn’t seem to be any need to mobilize the diaspora. Our attitude was that they should get on with their own lives – if they wanted to contribute they should have come home. (Spokesperson for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs – Asmara) A number of reasons can be suggested for the Government’s policy. The most benign is that the Government recognized that many Eritreans in the diaspora had made very significant sacrifices – of their free time and money – during the struggle for independence, and that they should now be encouraged to pursue their own lives. It is equally true, however, that the Government was concerned to avoid criticism from within the diaspora. There was also a sense of disappointment – betrayal would be too strong – that most Eritreans had chosen not to return after Independence, and as a result a determination not to involve them too greatly in determining the future of the state. As a result of the Government’s attitude towards Eritreans in the diaspora, many of them have developed contradictory relationships with the state. On the one hand they have maintained links, primarily through economic contributions and political participation. On the other hand, and particularly when compared to their relationships with the ‘struggle’, they feel they have been cast off by the state to pursue their lives in host countries. This contradictory relationship has been confirmed for many during the conflict. Most have paid the extra contributions which have been asked of them, despite a growing scepticism about the motivations of the Government, and despite having absolutely no say in any decisions about the conflict. In the aftermath of the conflict, there is an impression that many Eritreans are reappraising their relationship with the state. Intensifying economic strains A more specific way in which the activities of the Eritrean Government have succeeded in alienating even its supporters has been through its substantial requests for money. Particularly for poorer Eritreans – the unemployed, those without secure legal status, single parents – these extra 120

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requests have resulted in enormous economic strains. Several respondents have told me that they are torn between wanting to contribute to their homeland, but at the same time having to face up to the economic realities of life in their host countries. They feel upset by the way that the Government has effectively exposed their lack of success in their host countries. This economic strain has been exacerbated for many respondents from two directions. First, in many cases, their families in Eritrea have also asked them to send additional money. Most respondents reported having sent remittances on a fairly regular basis before the conflict, but many of them have received specific requests from their families for more money. These requests have been in response to the economic strains that the conflict has placed on the population in Eritrea, most obviously through the recruitment of economically active family members. Besides the desire to contribute to the state and to assist family members in Eritrea, there has also been pressure on many within the diaspora to be seen to contribute. This social pressure has arisen because of the very public way in which money has been collected within the diaspora. A short anecdote from an Eritrean Community Centre in Berlin probably best illustrates this point. On the noticeboard was a list of those within the community who had made extra contributions, along with the amount they had contributed. Every person who had contributed received a certificate issued by the Eritrean embassy acknowledging his or her role in ‘protecting Eritrea’. Interviews with community members whose names did not appear on the notice made it clear that this had become a source of deep embarrassment – and even shame.

Conclusions What lessons can be learned from the Eritrean case study for the mobilization of new African diasporas more generally? One suspects that many states in Africa – and elsewhere – might ‘envy’ the close and frutiful relationship that the Eritrean state has managed to maintain (until very recently at least) with the diaspora. Three factors combine to explain this. One relates to the strength of the Eritrean state. Eritrea has been governed since Independence by one party, the PFDJ, and one President, Isaias Afewerki. There have been no elections since Independence, and there is no viable alternative party in Eritrea. Power is heavily concentrated on the PFDJ, to the extent, for example, that there is no independent media within Eritrea. Arguably popular support for the PFDJ derives from the fact that it is simply a renamed version of the EPLF which, under Isaias Afewerki, liberated Eritrea from Ethiopia. 121

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A second factor has been a remarkable sense of unity within the Eritrean diaspora. Tensions certainly exist – along ethnic lines (there are nine main ethnic groups in Eritrea), religious lines (Eritrea’s population is fairly evenly distributed between Muslims and Christians), and political lines (the EPLF itself evolved as a splinter group from the Eritrean Liberation Front [ELF], and Eritreans today continue often to be differently aligned to these two Fronts). However, arguably stronger factors have united rather than divided the Eritrean diaspora, and perhaps the most important has been a shared sense of pride in having won an independent homeland. The third factor has been the conflict. Generally successful propaganda from the Eritrean state has portrayed Eritrea within the diaspora as the victim of a more populous, more powerful and internationally supported neighbour bent on recolonization. The diaspora has united to defend its homeland. These features are quite unusual in the African context, and make direct parallels with the Eritrean case difficult to draw. However, there is a wider lesson to be learned from the ‘backlash’ that the Eritrean state may be about to face from its diaspora. The crucial lesson relates to state responsibility. At one level, the Eritrean diaspora is critical of the state’s conduct during the conflict. For many it was not clear why Eritrea engaged in conflict rather than more vigorously pursuing diplomacy. Once conflict was entered, the state had no clearly stated aims. And, arguably, Eritrea lost the conflict. Some border areas have been ceded to Ethiopia, tens of thousands have been killed, hundreds of thousands displaced, and post-Independence reconstruction has been dramatically stalled. At another level, the Eritrean state has also been ‘irresponsible’ in the way that it has conducted its relationship with the diaspora. The diaspora increasingly senses that it has been exploited, and is unwilling to allow this to continue. Arguably, states need to be more accountable to diasporas than to their home populations. As has been shown in the Eritrean case, dissent within Eritrea has proved far easier to control that dissent from overseas nationals. Compared with the reprisals that those in Eritrea might risk, there are no serious obstacles to the withdrawal of support for the state within the diaspora. Yet at the same time the withdrawal of support from the latter may have a greater impact than from the former. For African states, the corollary of mobilizing the diaspora is increased accountability and responsibility.

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Note 1 The project was funded by the ESRC Transnational Communities Research Programme. It was a comparative study of Eritrea and Bosnia, coordinated jointly by University College London and the University of Sussex.

References Bascom, J., 1998, Losing Place, Oxford: Berghahn. Clapham, C., 1998, ‘The Eritrea–Ethiopia conflict’, Forced Migration Review, 2: 34. Connell, D., 1997, Against All Odds: A Chronicle of the Eritrean Revolution, (2nd edition) Trenton, NJ: Red Sea Press. Eritrean Relief and Refugee Commission (ERREC), 1999, Briefing Note on Situation of the Emergency Relief Programme, June 1999. McSpadden, L., 1999, ‘Contradictions and Control in Repatriation: Negotiations for the Return of 500,000 Eritrean Refugees’, in Black, R. and Koser, K. (eds) The End of the Refugee Cycle? Refugee Repatriation and Reconstruction, Oxford: Berghahn, pp. 69–84. Negash, T. and Tromvoll, K., 2000, Brothers at War: Making Sense of the Eritrean–Ethiopian War, London: James Currey. Referendum Commission of Eritrea, 1993, Report on the Eritrean Referendum, Asmara: Ministry of Information. Smith, R.C., 1998, ‘Transnational Localities: Community, Technology and the Politics of Membership within the Context of Mexico and US Migration’, in Smith, M. P. and Guarnizo, L. E. (eds) Transnationalism from Below, New Brunswick: Transaction, pp. 196–237. Styan, D., 1993, ‘Eritrea 1993: The end of the beginning’, in Allen, T. (ed.) In Search of Cool Ground, London: James Currey, pp. 80–95.

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8 PARADOXICAL EXPRESSIONS OF A RETURN TO THE HOMELAND 1 Music and Literature among the Congolese (Zairean) Diaspora Désiré Kazadi Wa Kabwe and Aurelia Segatti

Although it remains one of the least studied, the Congolese diaspora represents one of the largest African immigrant communities in France today (Sadako 1993). Yet, Congo was never a French colony, neither were the Congolese encouraged to immigrate to France as migrant workers. The history of Congolese immigration to Europe, and to France in particular, is in this respect rather peculiar and has remained relatively hidden from host societies and governments. Even though their numbers have increased steadily over the last fifteen years, Congolese immigrants have been largely ignored by Europeans, and they have been less involved in immigrants’ rights movements than their Senegalese or Malian counterparts, as was clearly shown during the episode of the sans-papiers (Vangu Ngimbi 1997).2 Instead they have had a tendency to withdraw into their own community. This community focus, combined with their de facto long-term settlement in Europe, has led to particular perceptions of the concept of a ‘return to the homeland’. In order to understand the processes underlying current perceptions of the homeland and immigrants’ relationships to the idea of return, we have chosen in this chapter to focus on contemporary Congolese popular music and literature from the mid-1980s onwards. These two forms of artistic expression have been drawn upon because they represent two complementary vantage-points on Congolese immigration. Both are conceived here as social phenomena revealing on-going dynamics within 124

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the Congolese diaspora. Music and literature are studied here because they provide the researcher with clues about different means of expression for youth and exilic culture, as well as testimonies or chronicles of ordinary Congolese immigrants’ daily lives. Moreover they convey the community’s myths and common perceptions as well as, at times, their doubts and concerns. Before turning to the analysis of what we shall describe as contrasting or even paradoxical expressions of a ‘return to the homeland’, it is necessary to provide a brief overview of Congolese immigration to Europe, and in particular to France, and to explain the sources used in this chapter. First, it is essential to bear in mind that Congolese arrived in Europe only fairly recently. They are a ‘new’ diaspora. During the colonial period, migration by Congolese subjects to the colonial homeland was extremely limited, and where it took place it was mainly of seminarists recruited by Jesuits, a few domestic workers and a handful of students, among the first of whom was Thomas Kanza who completed his Honours degree at Louvain, Belgium in 1956. As Ndaywel è Nziem notes in his history of Zaire, by the time of independence only a few dozen Congolese could boast university degrees (Ndaywel è Nziem 1997). Therefore, when the first Zaireans started to arrive in relatively large numbers in Europe during the 1960s and 1970s, they were mostly students and civil servants sent to be trained in European, and in particular Belgian, schools and administrations. These were the so-called ‘Belgicains’ who benefited from Congolese and Belgian government scholarships and who largely returned home at the end of their training. This first wave of migrants was succeeded by a second from the early 1980s onwards, which largely comprised Congolese musicians and intellectuals. The former, among whom the best known were Franco, Tabu Ley, Madiata, Zaiko Langa Langa and Papa Wemba, could easily travel outside Zaire and were mainly attracted to Europe by recording studios and their commercial potential. The intellectuals were often people who refused to co-operate with President Mobutu’s system or simply had seized opportunities to work abroad, particularly in Belgian, French and American or Canadian universities. They often left the country on temporary contracts that they have continuously renewed. Their number includes philosopher and writer V.Y. Mudimbe, writer and literary critique Georges Ngal and linguist and novelist Pius Ngandu Nkashama. But it was actually from the mid-1980s that the bulk of Congolese immigrants started arriving in Europe. France, and later Germany and the UK were added to the traditional destination of Belgium. These movements were dominated by the youth, whose main motivation was to 125

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escape deteriorating conditions at home, characterized by record unemployment rates, the stagnation of wages, the lack of any coherent youth policy, a failing education system and the multiplication of human rights abuses at the paroxysm of Mobutu’s dictatorship. France became a particularly popular destination after Papa Wemba settled in Paris in 1986, where he successfully developed his cultural movement SAPE.3 The pioneers amongst these migrants mainly originated in Kinshasa’s most popular neighbourhood, Ndjili, an area near Kinshasa’s airport that has long been the epitome of Congo’s famous ‘Article 15’.4 They were generally well-educated and emigrated usually after having completed secondary education or after endless years at universities which were continually closed down by strikes. Multiple strategies were adopted by them and later subsequent migrants to enter Europe, ranging from using student visas, tourist visas or applying for asylum to enter Europe. One of the most prominent features that characterized the Congolese diaspora at this time – and that continues to do so today – is music. Congolese popular music, which may be Congo’s most successful export, is renowned all over Africa. As a central element of Congolese culture, music pervades the whole of Congolese society, including its diaspora. As P.N. Nkashama (1992: 122) writes, Congolese bands: have sung for years a diversified and varied repertoire, covering the most hackneyed themes of love encounters, successful or unsuccessful marriages, glorifying or glorified maternity (Maman napesi yo merci). Those of anxiety and death, to the most clumsy commercial slogans, as well as the inanity of ideological propaganda. After Papa Wemba, ‘the king of clothes’, a younger generation of musicians, in particular the band Wenge Musica and the singer Koffi Olomide, who named his band ‘Quartier Latin’ after the famous Parisian quarter, became popular both in Zaire and in Europe among the diaspora. Since they live both in Congo and Europe, they play the role of go-betweens, linking Congolese creative poles such as the Ndjili area with the Parisian fashion and music milieu. Congolese writers simultaneously became increasingly prolific in the 1990s. Some live in Europe, others in America; some are first generation exiled intellectuals, others such as Achille Ngoye, Maguy Kabamba, A.J. Nzau or Thomas Mpoyi-Buatu are younger writers. But in contrast with musicians, their work has never been popular in either Congo or within the diaspora. This is despite the fact that, uniformly, it focuses on their own community. Some of their favourite themes are Congolese 126

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youths’ emigration strategies, idealized and stereotyped representations of Europe, Mikili,5 and survival strategies in host countries, as in novels like Kin-La joie, Kin-La folie (Ngoye 1993), and La dette coloniale (Kabamba 1995). Another popular theme is the depiction of a utopian return to the homeland as the only way out of their individual and common dilemma, as portrayed for example in Vie et moeurs d’un primitif en Essonne Quatre-vingtonze (Nkashama 1987) and Traite au Zaïre (Nzau 1984). Having set the economic, social and artistic context for the Congolese diaspora in the 1980s and 1990s, this chapter now turns to an analysis of the dynamics of the different representations of both home and host countries in contemporary Congolese music and literature. The first part of the chapter focuses on representations of host countries, particularly in Europe. It identifies a contradiction between representations in music and literature. While music has created and perpetuated myths about Europe, literature has tried to explode them. The second part of the chapter turns to representations of the homeland and the notion of return. In these representations music and literature converge. In different ways they perpetuate a return movement amongst the diaspora.

Representations of the host society: myths and reality Kokende na Poto: a common ideal6 As indicated by Jean-Louis Joubert (1988), all human communities resort to myths, that is to say, literally, to mythical narratives, stories of gods or legendary heroes, which are taken for granted within the societies where they are told, even if their fictitious nature is totally obvious.7 Congolese society is no exception to this rule. Most of the myths analysed here deal with the fabulous narratives told by sons and daughters of the country about their stay in Europe. All have in common a mythical representation of Europe as a new Eldorado (Poto8). A common and complex discourse – derived from the need to rationalize emigrants’ attempts to reach Europe – has gradually developed. Although it is not homogeneous, varying from one social and cultural background to another, it broadly consists of two elements. First, one way of legitimizing leaving Congo is to focus attention on the ‘push factors’ that motivate expatriation. The second is to highlight the positive aspects of emigration. The failure of ‘Mobutism’ along with the dire poverty of 127

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his population has only sharpened the contrast between everyday life in Congo and the stories of wealth and plenty brought back by immigrants. This discourse recurs through both music and literature. These two art forms occur at different levels – the first popular, the second more elite – and thus the discourse is produced, reproduced and deconstructed widely. Music as both the product and channel of European myths The position of musicians is extremely specific as they are both producers and products of the myths developed around emigration. By expressing stories in a stylized and idealized manner through music, musicians have contributed to the crystallization of myths and legends that at times almost elevate migration to Europe to the level of a religious pilgrimage such as that to Mecca for Muslims. The geography of European capital cities, and in particular Paris and Brussels, is often integrated into popular songs, so that the names of Parisian quarters such as ‘Quartier Latin’, ‘Mairie de Montreuil’, or ‘Château Rouge’ are as familiar to Congolese youth as they may be to Parisians. For the former, however, they often have completely different connotations. At the same time, it is important to understand that the desire to be in Europe does not supersede the desire to return home, which is, ultimately, the final goal that emigrants have in mind. Indeed, the common perception is that it is actually only at home that the fruits of the European ‘quest’ can be appreciated and valued. The idea of emigrating is thus intricately linked to the idea of return. Together they provide the potential to escape one’s origins and re-invent one’s status. The case that best exemplifies this idea of redemption through a triumphant return is that of Stervos Niarchos, the ‘pope of SAPE’. An escaped criminal responsible for several armed robberies in Congo in the 1970s, he was welcomed home as the head of state on his return from exile in 1987. This incredible episode of contemporary Congolese history has become the epitome of the return movement and has been widely taken up in popular songs. Wenge Musica’s lead singer J.B. Mpiana provides a female version of the same theme in his song ‘Tabu Fatu’:9 Tomema yo na Tshipoyi lokola mulopwe, totambwisa yo Congo mobimba, Tabu top model. Liyolo atongela yo monument na centre ya rond-point Victoire, générations na batouriste batalaka yo ndenge peuple japonais basalaka HiroHito 128

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We shall carry you in a sedan chair like a queen, and take you round the whole country, top model Tabu. Liyolo shall sculpt a monument that will depict you and place it in the middle of ‘La victoire’ roundabout where generations of tourists will admire you as the Japanese people admired Hiro Hito. (Personal translation) These lyrics powerful evoke the mythical ‘final day’ of return, or ‘mokolo ya final’. The well-known Papa Wemba song ‘Jour ya proclamation’, which has become the ‘national anthem’ of Sapeurs, is another among dozens of such celebrations of successful and heroic returns and moments of glory. As commonly perceived, that final day involves a retrospective assessment of the time spent in Europe. A distinction is often drawn between true miguelists,10 who have brought home with them material signs of enrichment and have ‘made their mark’,11 and failed returnees, who have squandered their savings. Another of Mpiana’s songs makes more explicit this syncretic reformulation of the Old Testament’s ‘Day of Judgement’:12 Bana Londres, bana Suisse, boyoka: Poto toya koluka l’avenir sima tozonga mboka, Soki te, retour na yo bakoseka yo, Yoka toli Patsho Bate. Na Bruxelles, na Paris, boyoka: Final ezali se na Kinshasa, na mboka ya bankoko, na terre ya bankoko (. . .). Yo okomona vrai na faux mikiliste. Children from London, children from Switzerland, listen: In Europe we have come to seek our ‘future’, and then go back home, If you don’t succeed, when back home, they will make fun of you, Listen to this piece of advice, Patsho Bate. In Brussels, in Paris, listen: The final day will only be in Kinshasa, in the home of our ancestors, in the land of our ancestors (. . .). That is where you will make the difference between true and false mikilists. (Personal translation) 129

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The homeland is therefore presented as the only place where achievements in Europe become meaningful. Europe remains a society of strangers whose values do not match those of the immigrant. The classic perceptions of the journey to Europe as conveyed in Congolese popular music are thus based on an overemphasis of the prosperity of the host society, combined with the reservation that migration is a type of initiation ritual that provides a means to consolidate one’s future in the homeland. It follows that staying in Europe, for however prolonged a period, is only temporary. The point of reference remains the homeland. Europe is the means towards a Congolese end.

Behind the myths Its form and its need to appeal to a wide audience limit Congolese music as an artistic means of expression. It is bound by social conventions and remains constrained by a kind of mainstream way of thinking. It thus represents only one aspect of the ‘emigration discourse’. Other, less visible aspects are better explored in literature. Music and literature are not contradictory expressions of the idea of a return to the homeland, but rather offer different perspectives on the same situation. Literature, as a more individualistic means of artistic expression, enables its authors to question the unspoken – society’s taboos – and to get behind the myths. To an extent Congolese literature is liberated from social norms as it is mainly produced and published outside the homeland. Even though they form part of the diaspora, writers are often at its margins as intellectuals. Furthermore, by writing fictions authors can distance themselves from their subjects. In this way, Congolese writers often have greater liberty than musicians to probe the hidden dimensions of immigrants’ lives, to assess their lifelong trajectories, and to analyse their problems. One dimension of the migration ‘myth’ that is questioned in literature is its temporariness. Contemporary Congolese novels mainly focus on linear narratives of immigrants’ lives that enhance their long term – often permanent – nature. The whole narrative of La dette coloniale (Kabamba 1995) is centred on the life of the character Mutombo, starting with his cumbersome efforts to leave Congo and then progressing to his plight as a penniless foreign student in Brussels. Significantly, the novel ends without his having returned home or fulfilled his dreams. Mutombo realizes, in a stream of consciousness, that: ‘seven long years have gone since the day when Maître and I got off at Zaventem airport’(p.147). Grand Henri, in the same novel, goes even further, regretting the destiny he has denied himself by leaving home and reflecting on the impossibility of return: 130

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‘I would be the happiest man if I could go back. I certainly wouldn’t have wasted my studies . . . perhaps I would already be married, and have a few kids, working as a teacher somewhere’. (p. 149; personal translation13) Novels are also assessments of entire lives. They often dwell on failures, and the failures of the central character are often compounded by the successive failures of secondary characters, thus creating the feeling that whole generations have been trapped in the pitfalls of emigration. Salomoni in Kin-La joie, Kin-La folie (Ngoye 1993) survives on odd jobs in Paris, far from having achieved his initial ambitions as a medical student in Congo. He cannot even consider going home. As Ngoye’s narrator puts it, he cannot ‘escape from the Congolese saying that one cannot come back from Europe empty-handed’ (p. 159). His friend Maki opted for suicide when forcefully repatriated on a charter flight; others become insane. Contemporary Congolese novels almost invariably hint at the tragedy that even where return can take place – where obstacles such as suicide or insanity do not exist – it is still not achieved because the expectations surrounding it are so powerful that shame becomes the major deterrent. Omniscient narrators, who can thus be objective observers of the lives of immigrants, generally lead these novels. They unveil the contradictions of immigrants’ lives. They expose the rituals, logic and values that govern the bulk of Congolese immigrants’ behaviour. The critical nature of the following description by Ngoye is illustrative: During the break, a model in a suit came out of a circle of birds, who, already superb in their attire, impressed everyone with Marie-Mercié hats, whereas their male partners shined in clothes that would have petrified Parisians in bleached jeans. There was class in the dressing of the handsome hunk: a mohair three-piece suit with a ‘complicated jacket’, that is to say doublebreasted, that could be dismantled, and prohibitively priced, a golden watch, antique tie pin and tie, tinted glasses and shoes that could not have been discovered in Barbès, silver bracelets, golden neck chain and, since he was the ‘best’, a pocket handkerchief in his hand. The good-looking fellow walked towards the stage. There he looked his rivals up and down with an air of ‘they don’t come more conceited!’ before giving a parcel to Jo. The latter hastily opened it to find a pair of crocodile shoes! A deadly silence followed the unwrapping of the present, and matrons stuffed with semolina devoured the donor. (p. 165; personal translation14 ) 131

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There is a paradox here. As Congolese, writers have an intimate knowledge of Congolese society and diaspora. As writers and intellectuals, they are at the same time ‘outsiders’. Both fascinated and horrified by the inanity of their fellow countrymen’s behaviour, their descriptions cannot avoid also being denunciations of preconceived ideas about Europe, and exposures of immigrants’ predicaments there. Congolese contemporary writers are therefore inevitably faced with a dilemma that P.N. Nkashama (1987) summarizes perfectly in Vie et moeurs d’un primitif en Essonne Quatrevingt-onze: That is our victory. The immersed part that nothing will ever be able to take away from us, neither in this life, nor in any other. I only regret that this exhilarating part of myself had to be lived only spiritually. Through speech and writing. It is not that I am afraid of death. It simply is no concern of mine any longer. But I also know that I cannot serve any better, or be any more useful, than what I am bound to achieve in my own field, to make people become conscious. (p. 128; personal translation15 )

Representations of return: a home away from home As we have seen, perceptions of Europe in music are by no means a true reflection of what awaits immigrants on their arrival in host countries. The same is true of musical perceptions of the homeland. Congolese musicians, precisely because they are intimately connected to migration networks, have no desire to criticize immigrants or disabuse them of their dreams. The only exceptions are singers such as Ray Lema or more recently Lokua Kanza, who are considered by the diaspora as ‘outcasts’. As for writers, even if their depiction of Congo often denounces the vicious circle of postcolonial violence and inanity there, they also tend to conjure up, at regular intervals, visions of a ‘utopian motherland’. In contrast with their markedly different representations of host societies, musicians and writers converge in different ways on an idealization of the country of origin and or return. This idealization is based on two main elements. One is the myth of the ‘Great Congo’, coined by Mobutu but not invented by him. The idea of Congo deriving a kind of grandeur from the vastness of its territory in fact dates back to the megalomaniac colonial project of Belgian King Leopold II. His representation of Congo as an African giant has prevailed throughout the second half of the twentieth century, first in the minds of the settlers then later in those of the ex-colonized. Mobutu’s attempt to 132

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forge a national identity was, to a large extent, built on an idealized vision of the country as a united land of richness and diversity that would, one day, emerge as a leader on the continent. This image probably had some potential in the 1960s, as the final years of colonization had overseen improvements in the country’s infrastructure, health and education. At that time people from all over the continent came to Kinshasa’s Mama Yemo’s Hospital or Lovanium University. The image had little credibility by the end of Mobutu’s reign. Still, it had two important repercussions. First, it instilled in the population a belief that the country’s crisis could only be temporary given its unquestioned ‘greatness’. In some ways this diverted the attention of many from what was actually happening under Mobutu. Second, for the diapsora specifically, Congo was perceived as having an unquestionably promising future, and as being a land where one should build one’s house and support one’s relatives, a land where one should eventually go home. This mindset is of course not unique within Africa, where the double discourse of post-colonial rulers, at the same time emphasizing but undermining their countries’ potential, has led generations of African youths to see emigration as a convenient but temporary solution. The second element in this common idealization of the homeland is derived from the nostalgia experienced by immigrants for a land in which they will not be strangers. Besides being a country of great collective potential, Congo is also for migrants a country which offers them individual potential – the place where their achievements abroad will finally be recognized. Part of the reason for this nostalgia is the experiences of immigrants in host societies – their realization that Europe is not the place that was promised when they left home, and is not a place where they can truly realize their own potential or exercise their own values. In this context, the Congolese diaspora remains closely oriented to the home country. It is largely a closed and self-reliant community. Most Congolese socialize together rather than with ‘outsiders’, in ngandas16 and at Congolese concerts. Small-scale services and import/export companies are also booming, enabling immigrants to send home messages, gifts and money.17 In Château Rouge, a popular Parisian quarter inhabited by African immigrants, groceries traditionally run by Asians are being taken over by Congolese. Music pervades both the public and private spheres of the diaspora, at concerts of course, but also in ngandas, at football grounds, at the hairdresser, at mourning gatherings, in church and in markets where pirate CDs, videos and audio cassettes are sold. Besides providing a common point of reference within the diaspora, the particular significance of music is that it also represents an important link between the diaspora and the homeland. It does this in at least two 133

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ways. First, Congolese music within the diaspora claims its authenticity through its association with the homeland. Groups that have presented themselves as born in Europe, like Wenge de Paris, for example, have generally failed. In a similar fashion, the legitimacy of SAPE is its origins in Kinshasa, as its slogan ‘Last step direct from Kinshasa’ underlines. There is a second way that music reduces the distance between home and the diaspora. Many songs refer to people who have paid singers to mention their names during a concert, or even in recordings of songs. Often their names are coupled with those of famous people or places, thus lending them an air of immortality. Examples include ‘Sylvie la Blanche’, ‘Titi Levallois’ or ‘Modogo Gianfranco Ferre’.18 To be mentioned in one of Koffi’s or Wenge’s songs is part and parcel of poser des actes – making your mark – and will be taken into account on the ‘final day’. A mention in a song not only enhances one’s status within the diaspora, but also that of friends, neighbours and relatives back home. For many, music may be the only way to transcend this distance, as the insecure status and poor economic situations of many immigrants severely limit the extent to which they can send home money or gifts. In response, some Congolese immigrants have developed strategies, often imported from Congo, for overcoming these obstacles. They range from cheque forgery through robbery to drug smuggling. This criminality is increasingly legitimized through a new ‘philosophy’ within the diaspora – that of the ‘colonial debt’. Best described in Maguy Kabamba’s novel La dette coloniale (1995), this ‘philosophy’ holds that the acquisition of goods and money – be it through legal or illegal means – represents a legitimate refund of the ‘colonial debt’. The phrase originates in Congolese–Belgian litigation that started at the time of independence in 1960, and it was regularly used by Congolese leaders long after Independence.19 In its new manifestation the philosophy has been used by some to justify almost anything. Here is an excerpt from a discussion between the two protagonists in the novel La dette coloniale: ‘Yes, but Belgium has started denouncing little by little Mobutu’s shortcomings,’ said Maître. ‘They do that because Mobutu has started challenging them. My dear friends, call me a thief, a bandit, but given the on-going state of things, I can’t go back. We don’t have the appropriate means to make the Belgians pay for the way in which they plundered Congo during the colonial time and even continue to today. Besides, we can’t work in this bloody country. What else can we do?’ (Personal translation20) 134

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For the purposes of the argument here, there are two particularly striking elements of the philosophy of the ‘colonial debt’. First, it reveals once again that the Congolese diaspora essentially shares a frame of mind that prevails in the home country, justifying its present actions through the history of the ‘motherland’. The second element is that through adopting and adapting this philosophy the diaspora exhibits an intimacy with the homeland that excludes outsiders, by using a vocabulary and a code of conduct that only initiates can make sense of. This was a technique that was also used by Mobutu, as exemplified in the famous broadcast of his interview on American television during which the whole Congolese nation heard him say ‘Bwaka Bango Lokuta’ (which means ‘Tell them lies’ in Lingala) when asked to name his Foreign Minister. Music and literature contribute in different ways to the illusion of a home away from home. They help to unite the diaspora and exclude ‘outsiders’, while maintaining links with the homeland. In this way they underpin what are defining characteristics of a diaspora.

Conclusion In different ways Congolese music and literature are oriented towards the idea of return. Music may glorify Europe, but only as a rite of passage before going home. Literature deconstructs the exilic experience, thus similarly providing an impetus for return. And both provide links to the homeland for the diaspora. What is particularly striking is that both take as given the inevitability of return. In this way music and literature precisely mirror the diasporic experience. Be it [exile] negative or positive; literary or real, that is to say physically and actually lived, the exile has only one anxiety: to return towards to his lost identity, to his homeland – a physical, cultural, ideological or spiritual return. (Makouta-Mboukou 1993; personal translation21) There seems to be a reluctance even to consider permanent settlement, and in this way music and literature run the risk of overlooking other significant issues, for example for those who have been born and are growing up in exile. Neither have music or literature traditionally problematized the notion of a homeland. In many ways, the gap between the social constructions of Congo in music and literature and the social realities of the country today continue to widen. Only one band – a Parisian-based rap band 135

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called Bisso na bisso22 – has started to tackle these sorts of issues. This is an excerpt from their song ‘Le cul entre deux chaises’:23 Brazza, Paris, On both sides, I’m stuck I am at a loss Over there or here, It’s always the same one that gets you (. . .) I don’t know where to die, where to rot, my smile has disappeared Here or there is the same, Here too, evil carries out its task Over there, the devil stays awake. (Personal translation24) There has been relatively little new music or literature from within the Congolese diaspora over the last five years, so it is impossible to say to what extent the sentiments in these lyrics are becoming expressed more openly. They may be a sign that a second generation of Congolese musicians and writers will be able to think what has apparently been the unthinkable for their predecessors, and dispel simplistic notions of a return to the homeland. Many Congolese have little hope of going home in the near future, and the challenges of building new identities in host societies should surely be fertile ground for new musicians and writers.

Notes 1 We are indebted to Sandra Saayman for her corrections and helpful remarks. 2 The sans-papiers are undocumented immigrants who organized a protest movement for regularization that became famous in 1997 when they occupied several churches in Paris. The then French Minister of Interior, Jean-Louis Debré, ordered the police to evacuate one church. During the evacuation, several pictures were taken showing French security forces axing down the door of the church. These pictures popularized the movement and it received backing from several human rights organizations and celebrities. In 1999, over 80,000 undocumented immigrants were given documentation but there are still thousands of cases which have not been processed yet. 3 SAPE is both an acronym and a French slang word. Sape in French means smart clothes. From this first meaning, musician Papa Wemba claims the original coinage of the acronym which stands for ‘Société des Ambianceurs et des Personnes Elégantes’, literally, Society of Pleasure-seekers and Elegant Persons. The SAPE is meant to be a musical and cultural movement based on the idea of elegant clothing. 4 ‘Article 15’: this expression was coined as a distortion of the Congolese

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8 9 10 11 12 13

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16 17 18

19

Constitution’s article 15 of the fundamental law of 17 June 1960, dealing with individual freedom. It has become synonymous with a person’s resourcefulness, or an excuse to resort to any means to survive. Mikili: literally, worlds. This word has become a synonym for Europe. Kokende na Poto: going to Europe. Joubert, Jean-Louis, La poésie (1988: 16): ‘Toutes les collectivités humaines recourent à des mythes, c’est-à-dire, au sens propre, à des récits fabuleux, histoires, de dieux ou de héros légendaires, qui sont tenus pour vrais par les sociétés qui les racontent, bien que leur caractère de fiction éclate aux yeux de tous’ (personal translation). Poto: Europe in lingala. Mpiana, J.B., 1998, ‘Tabu Fatu’, Feux de l’amour, Paris, Sonodisc. ‘Miguelists’ or ‘mikilists’: words derived from mikili that broadly designate those who have lived in Europe. Literal translation from Congolese French: ‘poser des actes’. Mpiana, J.B., ‘Patsho Bate’, in op.cit. ‘Je serais l’homme le plus heureux si je pouvais rentrer. Je n’aurais sûrement pas fait de mes études une carrière . . . Peut-être que je serais déjà marié, père de quelques gosses, occupant un poste de professeur quelque part . . . (1995: 149). ‘A la pause, un mannequin en costar sortit d’un cercle dont les pépées, déjà superbes dans leurs pagnes, en imposaient avec des chapeaux Marie-Mercié, tandis que leurs cavaliers brillaient dans des sapes à congestionner les parigots en jeans délavés. De la classe dans l’habillement du bellâtre: un complet en mohair à “veste compliquée”, c’est-à-dire croisée, démontable et au prix inabordable, une montre en or, limousse et cravate d’époque, fumantes et pompes indécouvrables à Barbès, bracelets en argent, chaînette d’or au cou et, comme il était le best, un mouchoir de poche dans une main. Le beau gosse se dirigea vers la scène sous les regards du public. Il y toisa ses semblables sur l’air de “plus fat que moi, tu meurs!” avant de remettre un paquet à Jo. Celui-ci l’ouvrit prestement: une paire de souliers en crocodile! Un silence de mort suivit la remise du cadeau, et des matrones gavées de semoule dévorèrent le donateu’ ‘C’est cela, notre victoire. La part immergée que rien ne pourra jamais nous arracher, ni en cette vie, ni en aucune autre. Je regrettais seulement que cette part exaltante de moi, je ne sois obligé de la vivre que spirituellement. Par la parole et l’écriture. Ce n’est pas que j’aie peur de la mort. Simplement elle ne me concerne plus. Mais je sais aussi que je ne pourrais aucunement servir utilement, mieux que ce que je suis amené à produire dans mon propre domaine, pour donner conscience.’ Ngandas: taverns. For a detailed anthropological description of Congolese lives in Europe see: Bazenguissa and MacGaffey (1995) and Bitumba Tipo-Tipo (1995). For more on new destinations of Congolese immigration see: Bouillon (1996). ‘Sylvie la Blanche’, Sylvie the White Girl; ‘Titi Levallois’ – Titi is a short for Thierry or takes up the ‘Titi Parisien’ (Parisian boy), Levallois is a Parisian suburb; ‘Modogo Gianfranco Ferre’ – Modogo, a real name and Gianfranco Ferre after the famous Italian fashion designer. For a detailed explanation of the the litigation, see Ndaywel è Nziem (1997) and De Vos (1975).

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20 ‘Oui, mais la Belgique commence à dénoncer petit à petit les défaillances de Mobutu’, dit Maître. ‘Ils font cela parce que Mobutu commence à les défier. Chers amis, appelez-moi voleur, bandit, mais vu l’état actuel des choses, je ne peux pas reculer. Nous n’avons pas les moyens adéquats pour faire payer aux Belges le pillage qu’ils ont effectué au Zaïre pendant la période coloniale et même celui qui continue aujourd’hui. En outre, nous ne pouvons pas travailler dans ce foutu pays. Que faire?’ 21 ‘Que l’exil soit définitvement négatif, destructeur, ou au contraire positif, donc heureux, que l’exil soit purement littéraire, ou non, c’est-à-dire physique et réellement vécu, il y a chez l’exilé une hantise: le retour vers l’identité perdue, vers le pays natal, retour physique, culturel, idéologique ou spirituel.’ 22 ‘Bisso na bisso’ means between us. 23 Bisso Na Bisso (1998), Racines, Paris: Issap Productions. 24 ‘Brazza, Paris, des deux côtés je suis bloqué, / Le cul entre deux chaises, / Là-bas, ici, / C’est toujours le même qui va te croquer. (. . .) Je ne sais plus où mourir, où pourrir, effecé mon sourire, / Ici ou là-bas, c’est pareil: Ici aussi, le mal poursuit son oeuvre, là-bas, le diable veille.’

References Bazenguissa, R., and MacGaffey, J., 1995, ‘Vivre et briller à Paris. Des jeunes Congolais et Zaïrois en marge de la légalité économique’ Politique Africaine, 58. Bisso Na Bisso, 1998, Racines, Paris: Issap Productions. Bitumba Tipo-Tipo, Mayoyo, 1995, Migration Sud/Nord – Levier ou obstacle ? Les Zaïrois en Belgique, Cahiers Africains / Afrika Studies / Bruxelles / Paris: CEDAF – L’Harmattan. Bouillon, Antoine, 1996, Les ‘Amagongogo’, Immigrants africains francophones en Afrique du Sud, GDR 846 ‘Afrique Australe’ CNRS, Programme de recherche sur les migrations, Institut Français d’Afrique du Sud, Département Sud de l’ORSTOM. De Vos, P., 1975, La décolonisation: les événements du Congo de 1959 à 1967, Bruxelles: A.B.C. Kabamba, Maguy, 1995, La dette coloniale, Montréal: Humanitas. Joubert, Jean-Louis, 1988, La poésie, Paris: Armand Colin. Makouta-Mboukou, J.P., 1993, Littératures de l’exil des textes sacrés aux oeuvres profanes. Etude comparative, Paris: L’Harmattan. Mpiana, J.B., 1998, ‘Tabu Fatu’, Feux de l’amour, Paris: Sonodisc. Ndaywel è Nziem, I., 1997, Histoire du Zaïre – De l’héritage ancien à l’âge contemporain, Louvain-la-Neuve: Ed. Duculot. Ngoye, Achille, 1993, Kin-La joie, Kin-La folie, Paris: L’Harmattan. Nkashama, Pius Ngandu, 1987, Vie et moeurs d’un primitif en Essonne Quatre-vongt-onze, Coll. Encres Noires, Paris: L’Harmattan. Nkashama, Pius Ngandu, 1992, ‘La Chanson de la rupture dans la musique zaïroise moderne’, in Papier blanc, encre noire, Cent ans de culture francophone en Afrique centrale (Zaïre, Rwanda et Burundi), 2, Bruxelles: Editions Labor. Nzau, A.J., 1984, Traite au Zaïre, Coll. Polars Noirs, Paris: L’Harmattan.

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Sadako, O., 1993, ‘Réfugiés et demandeurs d’asiles: un défi lancé à la politique européenne d’immigration’ in Vers une politique européenne de l’immigration, The Philip Morris Institute for Public Policy Research. Vangu Ngimbi, I., 1997, ‘Les Zaïrois de France sont-ils des immigrés?’, in Sociétés africaines et diasporas – L’immigration dans ‘tous’ ses états, no. 4, Paris: L’Harmattan.

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9 ‘EFIE’ OR THE MEANINGS OF ‘HOME’ AMONG FEMALE AND MALE GHANAIAN MIGRANTS IN TORONTO, CANADA AND RETURNED MIGRANTS TO GHANA Takyiwaa Manuh

Introduction This chapter explores the meanings of home, efie, among ‘Ghanaian’ migrants in Toronto, Canada, and returned migrants in Ghana. Since the early 1980s, Toronto has become home to an estimated 20,000 Ghanaian Canadians, in response to the continuing economic crisis in Ghana. In addition to Toronto, Ghanaians can be found in other cities in Canada, the United States, Holland, Belgium, Germany and Britain, and newer locations in Asia, Australia and New Zealand, leading to the growth of what may be referred to as the ‘Ghanaian diaspora’. In interviews with migrants in Toronto, they portray life at ‘home’ as becoming intolerable as economic conditions robbed them of their selfrespect and they found it hard to provide for their daily subsistence. In contrast, song lyrics that circulate in the migrant community nostalgically present home, efie, as a place of undisturbed peace and security, to which they hope to return after a successful period abroad; this chapter presents some accounts of such returns to Ghana. It draws on critiques of place and home by cultural geographers in the literature on migration and by feminists on the differential experiences of male and female migrants and their implications for gender relations. There is also some analysis of the portrayal of place in Ghanaian intercontinental migration through the music and song texts that are being produced in the growing Ghanaian diaspora. 140

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Home or hometown links have been an important tie even in internal migrations around Ghana, and have served as the destination for the investment of capital (Hill 1970; Eades 1987). Internal migrants build or aspire to build houses in their hometowns where they hope to retire. They return home for funerals of family members, festivals and other celebrations, and are themselves taken home to be buried should they die ‘abroad’. Studies on Ghanaian migrants (e.g. Ghana Statistical Service 1995) have shown that migrants maintain communication with those left behind. Migrants also maintain links with their villages and hometowns through family, friends and ethnic associations. The studies show that goods transferred to migrants’ home areas and remittances play a dual role of maintaining kinship ties, while also providing an important source of investment (Twum-Baah 1994). In a globalizing world where Third World migrants often find themselves thousands of miles from home, hometown ties might be considered rather tenuous. However, Ghanaian migrants, like many other migrants (Pessar 1986; Basch et al. 1994; and Small 1997), have sustained attachments to home through several transnational practices and projects. These include the struggle for the recognition of dual citizenship in Ghana; the establishment of national and hometown associations abroad; the sending home of remittances; and the importation of Ghanaian institutions such as chieftaincy and celebrations of births and deaths as practised in Ghana (Manuh 1998). An important emerging trend in these transnational practices is the links that migrants are forging among themselves across countries and continents. Thus Ghanaians travel between North America and Europe to attend funerals of deceased Ghanaians and out-doorings of babies, as well as to participate in the installation of chiefs in various North American cities. In these ways, ideas and practices are transferred across particular locales, affecting migrant organization and assessments of their conditions and futures, and informing the ways in which the nation is imagined (Anderson 1983). Commodities that have significance and value for Ghanaians are also traded and exchanged and serve to impart new tastes and scales of preferences for migrants. Some of these commodities are subsequently transferred to Ghana as remittance goods and, in turn, affect and shape local tastes and preferences (Manuh 1998). While both male and female migrants participate in the associations, practices and projects, this participation is highly gendered and reflects, to varying degrees, the interests, aspirations and actual locations of men and women in national and migratory structures. Thus male migrants in Toronto have been very active in the struggle for the recognition of dual 141

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citizenship in Ghana and have formed a coalition with Ghanaian groups in the UK for its promotion (Manuh 2000). On the other hand, female migrants do not appear to care much about dual citizenship, and seem surprised that the same men who had been denying them their rights in Toronto were championing rights for all in Ghana (ibid.). In contrast, females appeared more involved in ongoing, daily negotiations over their bodily integrity and control of their earnings. They insist to their husbands or partners that ‘this place (Toronto) is not Ghana’, and have sometimes resorted to the police and metropolitan authorities in Toronto for redress (ibid.). Central to these assertions and contestations are ideas and conceptions about home, place and culture, which are explored in the rest of this chapter.

Place in migration studies Reviews of migration and specifically of place in migration by cultural and economic geographers, feminists and Marxists, among others, have noted the tendency toward boundedness in the conceptualization of place (King 1995; Massey 1992, 1995; Barrett 1980). King (1995) comments on the interdependence of places, and sees boundaries as part of the process of place-making and the exercise of power. But while places may be interconnected and interdependent, there is also unequal interdependence that sustains particular ‘geographies of power’, with social relations stretched across space. Doreen Massey (1995) critiques the dominant notions of place as a secure haven that is culturally relatively coherent and bounded. Instead, she demonstrates that the identities of places themselves are in part a product of a long history of connections with the beyond and other places. Massey conceptualizes places as more essentially open and porous, the products of links with other places, rather than as exclusive enclosures bound off from the outside world. Seeing places as bounded can lead to their interconnections being ignored, while the conception of place as particular sets of interconnections in a wider field allows a combined understanding of local uniqueness and wider interlinkages. Feminists have also critiqued the bounded conception of place and its assumptions about the meanings of place and home to gendered men and women, and their implications for gender relations. They note that integral to ideas of places as stable and settled is a notion of place as ‘home’, and as a haven of peace and quiet and of retreat. But for many women, home may be the place, not of rest, but of work. Neither is home necessarily a haven of peace and quiet, and intra-family relations may be the source of just as much conflict as external social relations, with the 142

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social organization of home as a central key in women’s oppression (Barrett 1980, among others). Despite these critiques, an attachment to bounded conceptions of place still often appears in the literature on migration. Stuart Hall (1995) has pointed out that place is one of the key discourses in the systems of meaning we call culture and that it functions to stabilize cultural patterns and fix cultural identities. Narratives of the nation, for example, attempt to produce identification with the nation and a sense of belonging there, even though there are profound differences within nations. Mythical landscapes, invented traditions, and the stories that define a nation are important in the construction of the nation (cf. Anderson 1983). As Hall notes, culture begins to form one of the critical circuits through which power of different kinds – economic, political and gendered – circulates. The challenge of globalization then becomes one of whether there will be a hybridization of cultures and difference or closed definitions of culture. Hall posits two models of culture and their relation to place. The first is attached to the idea of place or home of origin to which people are connected by tradition. It is not necessarily reactionary, but may be a powerful strategy of resistance and renewal. In the second model, the meanings are not fixed, but are constantly being renegotiated, contested and transformed, and Hall notes that globalization is pushing in this second direction. Ghanaian migrants that I studied in Toronto selectively draw on both models of culture to suit their circumstances and appear to find no contradictions in doing so. As Appadurai (1990) also shows, the reality on the ground shows that what exists in several locales is not a closed definition of culture or a wholesale swallowing up of local cultures by ‘foreign’ ones, but a constant process of indigenization, internationalization and bricolage. The commodities and symbols that come in from other places are converted to local values and uses and serve different purposes altogether. A typical example of this occurs at Suame magazine, a sprawling work site of hundreds of auto mechanics and spare part dealers in Kumasi, Ghana. Here, engines and other car parts from all over the world sent by migrants to relatives and business associates are evaluated through local scales of value and preferences, and converted to uses beyond the intention of their manufacturers (Manuh 2000). For many migrants, the choice is not an ‘either’, ‘or’, but a constant juggling of possibilities in which they select or reject practices, norms and ‘traditions’ to advance their particular needs. This is evident in the choices and positions that many of my informants adopted in their daily dealings and negotiations with spouses, State and local authorities and with relatives at home in Ghana. 143

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The portrayal of place in Ghanaian migration Ghanaians increasingly travel around the world in search of more secure havens as a response to declining economic and social conditions in Ghana (Greene 1987; Anyemedu 1993; Rimmer 1993; Peil 1995). In these migrations, the musicians among them have produced song-texts and music in which the themes of displacement and dislocation, marginality, loss and wandering figure prominently.1 These song-texts speak to the unequal location of Third World peoples in the global ‘ecumene’ (Hannerz 1989) and of their current predicaments, and sadness pervades much of the music. The lyrics indirectly impart lessons in political economy as they trace the relative positions of black people in different settings, and demonstrate an inchoate nationalism that cannot be lost on their listeners. These lyrics also articulate migrants’ own views of their situations more forcefully than has appeared so far in writing. Despite the existence of orthographies of Ghanaian languages and written literatures in English and other Ghanaian languages, most Ghanaian cultures are oral and are based on the spoken word. To date, there are few traditions of Ghanaian migrant writing, with the exception of Ama Darko’s Beyond the Horizon (1995), which details the sexual exploitation of Ghanaian and other African women in Europe and the existence of patriarchy across the seas. Songs and compositions by ‘Ghanaian’ musical and dance groups based in Europe and North America document the experience of migration through the ‘burgher’ highlife music originally produced in Hamburg, Germany, which filters back to Ghana. These songs speak of the loneliness of the journey, akwantuo, the frustrations and uncertainties, and the longing to be ‘home’. While the songs are written by professional musicians and cater to a market, they can be also said to be truly popular and to correspond to the experiences of many migrants who spend large sums of money on the latest compact discs (CDs) and cassette tapes. These songs are played for relaxation at home, at parties and funerals, and CDs are frequently exchanged with friends and acquaintances. The lyrics of some of the music produced by Ghanaian migrants essentialize differences in the nature of Europeans and non-Europeans. In the song ‘Sika Asem’, produced in Germany by Daddy Lumba and marketed extensively in Ghana and the Ghanaian diaspora, the globe is depicted as divided into fixed spaces where God has assigned definite places to particular genetic types. These ‘geographies of place’ (after Massey 1995) assign the tropics to the black man and snowy and cold climes to the white man. But black people now wander both hospitable and inhospitable climes because of hardships in their home countries.2 144

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The lyrics hark back constantly to place and home in the midst of these wanderings, to friends and family members left behind, and there is the hope that some day soon, all will be re-united. These remembrances of family and friends exert a powerful influence on how home is imagined and affect the processes of identity construction and community life among migrants. Ghanaians in Toronto3 Since the late 1980s Toronto has become a major hub for many Ghanaians. According to Ghanaian residents there, about 20,000 Ghanaians live in the Greater Toronto Metropolitan Area, although official census figures are lower. Residents can roughly be divided into two groups – those who arrived in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and those who arrived in the 1980s and early 1990s. They maintain close ties with one another through their living arrangements, work situations, family or hometown relationships and the churches they have established. They have also organized themselves into several community groups geared to their specific concerns (Owusu 1996). From interviews and conversations, it appears that newer residents are more active in the hometown development associations, while older residents dominate the larger ethnic and cultural associations. The array of associations, groups and churches provide the space for a vibrant community life and allow members to assert Ghanaian and other identities simultaneously. Community life is also strengthened by the existence of shops specializing in Ghanaian foods, musics and other products. These shops are heavily patronized and offer to diasporic Ghanaians foods and other products from ‘home’. While many migrants initially expected their stay abroad to be temporary, they have often been forced to stay on because conditions in Ghana and in Canada have combined to make it impossible for many of them to accumulate sufficient capital to return to Ghana to live comfortably.4 As a consequence, many migrants have adopted a transnational existence (Basch et al. 1994) to lessen the vulnerabilities that they face in both Ghana and Canada. The close ties and interactions that migrants maintain with one other help to keep Ghana in the forefront of migrants’ minds and actions. In addition, the ties that migrants maintain with their extended family networks and friends in Ghana help to buttress a close identification with Ghana. Through phone calls, letters, cassette tapes and visits home, migrants are kept abreast of family and community news. They also use these same channels to negotiate marriages, the acquisition of land and 145

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other property, and their eventual return to Ghana. Migrants keep abreast of exchange rates between the Ghanaian cedi and the US dollar and other trends in the Ghanaian economy, including interestingly the price of cement, which is the most popular material used for construction. They are sometimes frustrated by what they see as never-ending inflation and increases in the prices of consumer goods, but resolve to do their best for themselves and their families. In general, the criteria that most migrants use for evaluating the success of their migration include the construction of a house in Ghana for themselves and, where possible, for close kin such as their parents. According to many informants, a house is tangible evidence of achievement and compares favourably with more intangible evidence like knowledge acquisition or a diploma or degree. As one of them told me, ‘if you have merely studied or have knowledge, that would be hard for people to assess’. But another informant who had become a Buddhist and who saw his greatest achievement as self-mastery did not share this view of success. Nevertheless, even he had joined with his brothers to build a house for their mother in their hometown in Ghana. Some migrants reported that they had been disappointed by relatives in Ghana who had taken money from them to acquire building lots for them, but had failed to do so – they were at times very bitter. Indeed this experience of disappointment forms the sub-text for many migrant conversations. Two of my informants had given money to close relations to build houses for them, but nothing had happened. This had affected their relationships and resulted in bad blood between them and many acrimonious exchanges by cassette tapes. In addition to a house, most migrants aspired to return to Ghana to open their own businesses. Informants make careful decisions about what business to embark on. They exchange information with people in Ghana and often also make visits to Ghana to conduct ‘surveys’. Some of my informants, including many of the newer residents who aspired to return home as soon as possible, were interested in taking a course in business management or in a technical field at a community college, to help prepare them for their future business projects in Ghana. A general consensus among many of my informants was that living in Canada had taught them the value of hard work. Many were confident that if they could put in as much work for themselves in Ghana as they had done in Canada, they would be able to make it. Many informants also told me that they no longer made distinctions between mental and manual work. Many said they had overcome their own preferences for mental over manual labour, and had acquired many valuable skills that they intended to put to use in Ghana. 146

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As for success, migrants were also fairly unanimous about what they considered failure in migration. Failure consisted of having to come back to Canada after going home to Ghana, and many informants cited a twoyear adjustment period to determine whether or not they were going to succeed in their re-integration to life in Ghana. As they saw it, the challenge was to survive in Ghana, and extensive preparations were needed before their returns. A typical strategy consisted of several return visits to Ghana before a final departure. Another strategy was the decision to have one spouse, usually the wife, remain in Canada for a year or two while the husband went ahead to ensure that their home in Ghana was ready and that premises had been acquired for a business. Where children were nearly of college age, they were usually left behind with relatives or friends in Canada. But returning to Canada for medical treatment or for short periods of time to work was not considered failure. Many migrants who had worked for many years also expected to return from time to time to collect their pensions and other benefits. As migrants wait to acquire the means to return home, they try to make a life for themselves in Toronto in the interim. Some engage in business ventures in Ghana. For a period of time, the second-hand clothing business was a lucrative business, although its profitability has reduced considerably as a result of competition from other sources. Other migrants send second-hand engines to brothers and associates in Ghana as is shown in the example of Suame magazine. In the next section, I present long excerpts from interviews with returned migrants in Accra and Kumasi in Ghana, which reflect many of the concerns and criteria of success and failure that I have discussed above.

Returned migrants Returnee 1 My wife has been here [to Ghana] in the two years that I have not gone back. Unfortunately, she lost her father so she had to come for the funeral. I have plans for her to move down here so as a result, I have acquired a shop here for her. As soon as things move well, she will come. As for me, it is not my plan to return to live in Canada. As for the children, at their ages, they are in a good position to live on their own. I am still a citizen and can go back any time I want. My greatest source of concern while I was still in Canada was where I would live on my own when I returned to Ghana and not be a liability to any one else. I did not want the situation 147

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where I would have to fall back on my relatives or have to go to live in a family house and someone else would be ejected from a room to make space for me. That would breed resentment between that relative and myself. So that was my greatest concern that when I returned alone or with my wife, we would have somewhere to live. I was also concerned about the thought of growing old abroad. There are a number of Ghanaians who have grown old there and I did not want that to happen to me, but was concerned to come home and do something for myself. But I also knew that a house alone would not suffice because at the time that I had not built a house, there were people who had houses in Ghana but who had run away to live abroad. In addition to a house, you also had to have a well-paying job or business to keep you going. So I was concerned to get a house and also to have a job which could sustain me here. Now we could say that I have returned home. I haven’t accepted it fully, but that is how it is. Right now, there is nothing that could make me return to live in Canada and to continue working. As for the decision to return, it was always on my mind. I discussed with my wife that although one had hoped to go to heaven one was not getting there, one of us had to return to begin ‘something’. And I was the best person to come to set up. I had been coming on and off for about five years. I would come and stay for varying periods, sometimes for six months, four months. But since I came the last time, I have been here for nearly two years. It will be two years in July. Returnee 1: ensuring a sustainable return In those times when I would come and go, I was trying to build. I was also using the time to study conditions in Ghana and ponder what I could do on my return. For instance, there were people selling spare car parts, and I would ask myself whether that could be a profitable line for me to go into. Others had opened pharmacies and I pondered whether this could be another avenue for us for our old age. So it was like I was actively pondering what the ultimate decision or avenue for investing could be. The choice was not just for the present, but about what could carry us into our old age. 148

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It was not difficult to acquire land to build. In Ghana once you have got money, you can even acquire land at the castle [the seat of government]. I decided to build first in my hometown, which is Kumasi. I got land there. The house is about 90 per cent complete, and that is where I stay when I go to Kumasi. It is at an advanced stage so I do not have to worry anymore about that. So I will not even pump my money towards it. Rather, after the business yields some profit, I will use that to complete the house. At first I was renting accommodation in Accra, but presently, I live with my wife’s sister and her husband. They have built a house here in Accra. She is also abroad, so it is we two men who are living together in the house. I have plans to build in Accra. But we also have a branch of our business in Kumasi. We are covering the whole of Ghana. But if it is God’s wish, I will build a house in Accra also. So I have acquired two plots at West Legon, and once I have the land, then I have to try hard to do something. Returnee 2 If you are able to survive the first six months, then you will be okay. If you don’t run away then, you will survive. That way, he [sic] will begin to understand the Ghanaian scene and how to make it. Yes, I was paid when I was abroad, but you were just using it to pay bills. Just existing. Even when you were paid, how much was it really? Here, I am living. I can feel life. On holidays you can go to the beach. May 1st [Labour Day] will just be here. You can go to the beach. You can go here, you can go here. You can go to restaurants, you are more relaxed. On Sunday evenings you are not scared because you have got to work the following morning and that kind of stuff. It is a different thing altogether. Over there, we can’t have this talk on Sunday morning. Sunday morning, first, you go to do the grocery. After that, you come to do the laundry. Then you have to tidy up your apartment. By this time, it’s getting to 6pm. In the meantime, you would not have woken up early because you were tired, and slept in. So you don’t get up until about 9.30–10am. So by the time you can back from the grocery with the traffic and you finish tidying up, it is already late. And maybe you have been invited to someone’s small party somewhere, where you will be 149

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served jollof rice and adwemo, and you have to go and sit there, at some boring event. That takes time and gets you into bed late. So before you know it, the Sunday is over and you are back to old country. But in Toronto, the time! Everyone is looking for money to be able to return home. In the US, I was living like someone from there, but in Toronto, I was living as a migrant. Looking for money to take home. One of your feet is there and the other one is here. Because you get letters from home telling you that your mother is sick. You can’t sleep. They tell you to send money, otherwise the doctor will not perform the surgery. That kind of thing. Returnee 3 I am married. I have three children. My husband is here. I came with him, but my children are in Toronto. We left them there. My husband left first and sent for me. I went to Toronto. That is where we lived until we returned. I came back in 1992. I stayed there for 20 years. We decided to return to Ghana because life there is very hectic and as you get older you become tired, and you want to return home to rest. Something like retirement. So we decided we would return to take life easy. We used to come home to Ghana when we were in Toronto. We didn’t just decide to return to Ghana. From time to time when we came home, if we had money, we would buy land and other things. We were not saving money here, but we would acquire property. So when we decided to return, we sold our house in North York and used the money to buy a house here. Right now I have this small business that you see. I sell coke and other bottled drinks. My husband’s shop is the adjoining one. He sells spare parts and he also has a block factory at Achimota. That is where he is to be found most of the time. He has these boys who are his assistants who look after his shop. My husband came before I did. He came in 1987. That was after we bought the house. Then he acquired the shops and started the spare parts shop. So when I came I started this. The shop was already there – he had also acquired it. At first there 150

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weren’t too many people around here who were into spare parts, but later a lot of people moved in, and then it was no longer so profitable. We had some land at Achimota, so he decided he would use it to set up a factory to manufacture blocks. Between 1987 and 1992, I still worked in Toronto, but I would come and go. Two of my children have finished university, and both of them are working. We brought the youngest one with us when we were coming because she was still young. When she turned 16 last year, then we sent her back to Canada. She is in high school in Toronto. I haven’t been [to Canada] for some time. The last time was four years ago when the oldest got married. Maybe I will go this December. The transition was not too difficult because we didn’t come back all of a sudden. When my husband was coming, we shipped a lot of things home. And on my comings and goings, I would ship some things home too, until everything became complete. So because I came often, it was not too bad. So the adjustment was not too hard. Although we had relatives here, we were the ones who found and made the decision to buy our house. As you know, it is hard to leave such decisions to relatives. At first we had tried to build a house on our land at Achimota, but after we reached some stage we had to abandon it because of the proximity of the plot to a big gutter or drain. Like I said, because we came often, we brought many things down. And by the time we got the house, my husband moved back, and he brought beds, furniture, TV, fridge, cooker and other household items that we would need. Because we had lived there for a long time, I would ship little things down when I was coming until we managed to move all our things down here. I cannot see myself returning to live in Canada. Now I can’t go back to begin working again. Can’t you see that the work there is not like here? Here you can take things easy, but there is very different. Now I am also grown, so it will be very difficult to go back there to do shift work from 7pm at night to 7am in the morning and things like that. Now I am too grown to be able to work like that. At some stage in travelling, you have to think in terms of retirement. And come back to take life easy. When I go to Canada, I meet people, friends I left there. 151

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They want to come home. To be honest, because of our return, many others were encouraged to return home. There is a friend of mine who is here now, and who will be going back on Monday. She is here and is building her house, and will soon have completed it. She has made up her mind that when she is finished with the building, then gradually, kakra nkakra, she will move down. It is money that prevents many people from returning home. You see there are some people who never manage to find work continuously when they travel to be able to save up to return. If you find good work on a continuous basis, that can bring you income, but maybe you keep getting laid off at whatever job you find. You cannot save. There are others, women, whose marriages don’t work out for them. Then they have to separate from their husbands, and then it is very difficult to do much on one income. By the time she is grown, she does not have the money to move down here. And you would have lived abroad for a long time, and you cannot just return to go and live off a sibling again. You yourself feel that when you return, you must be independent, and have some capital to do something for yourself. Even if you managed to further your education, it would be difficult to go back and work in the public service. Look at me – at my age, if I had done some work, I couldn’t go back into government service, because many of my colleagues working will be going on pension soon. So I couldn’t go to work there. So if you feel that if you had a bit of capital to establish a business to live on that, but it is not there, then you become discouraged and you say to yourself, ‘what will I do when I go back? I don’t even have a place to live, I don’t have any work to do.’ So you just stay there. To my mind, what those abroad need the most are housing and capital, and no one will refuse that. If they were asked to return and they could be assured of housing and capital, no one would refuse to come. This is what they need the most. At their age, there are some who work in the Canadian Civil Service, and who know that if they returned to Ghana to work in the Civil Service here it would help the government. There is still a realization that they are almost getting to retirement, so even if they came, they couldn’t work for long. These extended excerpts capture, in their own words, the concerns and strategies of migrants. While Canada is portrayed as a zone of relative 152

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opportunity and safety, migrants also feel as if they are ‘just existing, not living’, and actively make plans to return to live in Ghana. However, they are also have no illusions about life in Ghana, and in their own words, ‘prepare well’ for their return, which is often a gradual and calculated process. A home and a business are seen as crucial in these preparations. What is striking in all their narratives is the contrasts they draw between life in Toronto and life in Ghana, and the air of freedom that they now breathe in Ghana. What they perhaps do not realize is that often this relates to their economic status of class, and that there are others in Ghana who labour under similar conditions as they did in Toronto. Indeed attempts to draw out from them any similarities and commonalities between their experience as migrants and the experiences of earlier migrants into Ghana from the West African sub-region were strenuously rebuffed. In further discussions with them, returned migrants also tended to be fairly conservative in their views on the rights and entitlements of workers in Ghana. In the section that follows, I shall briefly discuss the interplay of place and culture on gender relations among migrants and returned migrants. I draw on the literature about the ways in which gender, class and racial inequalities affect the lives of migrants, leading to profoundly different outcomes (Foner 1986; Grasmuck and Pessar 1991; Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994). In addition, the studies have brought out changes in perceptions and expectations in gender roles.

Place and culture among Ghanaian migrants in Toronto Among Ghanaian migrants in Toronto, gendered narratives emerge on home, culture and women’s rights. Thus, whereas female migrants in Toronto see their host societies as offering them more space and rights in domestic relations, male accounts contrast by seeing home in Ghana as a place of rest where relations with their women folk flowed in a stable, predictable order. Some men affirm that the right of a husband to ‘correct’ a wife by beating is a cultural right. In Canada, however, such behaviour is subject to penalties, including ejection from the home, a restraining order and a prison sentence. In this way, as Massey (1995) notes, the conception of ‘no place like home’ may ignore a range of important social issues such as the inequality of social relations and the existence of patriarchy. As I also suggest, the idea of home as an ‘unchanging stability’ that can be looked back on, and returned to, may be a masculine view that is not shared by females. For some of these women, there can be no return home either in a literal or 153

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figurative sense, nor can there be a return to the relations that it sustained. The ability to travel may therefore be a form of power that can be an important means of establishing an identity by escaping the confines of place. Many Ghanaian men in Toronto are bitter about what they see as the support of the Canadian State for women. They see this as undermining marriage and family life and their control of women. Many men also resent state provision of subsidized housing to women with young children, because it gives women alternatives to staying in abusive relations or unsatisfactory marriages. Some men see this as a complete reversal of roles and claim that in Canada, ‘women have become men, and men have become women’. Clearly, such men had not bargained for changes in the relations with women and feel unable to deal with them. These findings are similar to those that emerge from studies of other migrant communities (Foner 1986; Grasmuck and Pessar 1991; Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994). Many of these note the constriction of space for traditional patriarchal relations between men and women, leading to a trend towards more egalitarian relations and to women’s assertions of autonomy. At the same time, migration often allows women to gain access to social and economic resources that previously were beyond their reach. But the issue is not only economic and includes the changed social context for individuals during resettlement that reconstructs gender relations. In what they call ‘the gendered politics of return’, Grasmuck and Pessar claim that Dominican women in the US have devised strategies to maintain the gains of migration and employment. According to these authors, the women spend large amounts of money on expensive durable goods, such as homes and home furnishings, in an attempt to root the family comfortably in the US and deplete the funds needed to return (1991: 156). In contrast to women, middle-class and upper-workingclass Dominican men wanted to relocate, now that they could afford what would be a middle-class lifestyle in Dominican society and regain the privileges and public prestige that migration had challenged. According to Stuart Hall (1995), one result of globalization is that many cultures are caught between the desire for mobility and the material rewards of modernity, and nostalgia for a lost purity, stability and traditional coherence which the present no longer provides. But this statement can be contested on the grounds that the purity and tradition that are harked back to are often themselves a construction and a strategy of resisting change. Like Dominican women migrants, many Ghanaian females were also reluctant to return ‘home’. In the words of one male informant who had returned to Ghana: 154

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When I was coming, my wife stayed back for one and half years. Most of the women are apprehensive. They don’t know if they will be able to sustain their lifestyle. Also the power – [in Toronto] when there is a quarrel, the man is ordered out of the house; if there is a divorce they get custody and get benefits. More fundamentally, the women don’t acquire any education so they don’t have any other prospects except to trade. And that creates difficulties. . . . The contributions that the women make [in Toronto] are a source of tension. In the 1950s, the men used to go [abroad] on scholarships. Towards the end of their studies, the wife would go for six months or so. At that time, there were no expectations on the part of the woman’s family, now there are. My wife’s mother, for example, expects her to build a house for her. It is both a reflection of the changes in the Ghanaian economy and in the society as a whole. Women are expected to make something of themselves, not just as housewives. The two cultures that we are trying to mix bring a lot of problems. The meaning of family changes from Canada to here. It depends on who benefits, though. My mother-in-law, for example, will insist that her son builds a house for her, and that her daughter should also build her a house. We should be clear about what system we maintain. It creates a lot of conflict for the men. Another and important reason for apprehension on the part of females to return ‘home’ is the fear of polygyny. Polygyny is legal in Ghana and appears to be thriving in the current situation of economic crisis. From interviews and anecdotal evidence, it appeared that some male migrants in Toronto go on holiday to Ghana and establish relationships with other women. Sometimes they also promise to bring them over to Canada. For some men, this may be a way to reassert the dominance that they feel they have lost in Canada and to re-establish patriarchal relations with women in which they have control. But wives in Canada often refuse to tolerate these relationships, or to subsidize their husbands’ lifestyles by taking on more of the obligations within households. In many cases this leads to the dissolution of the marriage. The changing terrain of gender relations also has implications for women’s autonomy and their options in both Canada and Ghana. While living in Canada allows women to sustain certain actions against men that are supported by provisions in Canadian law, many do not see the same protections as forthcoming in Ghanaian law and this can affect their decisions whether to return to Ghana or to remain in Canada. At the same time, many women expressed fear of growing old in Canada. They 155

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pointed to the fate of older Caribbean women they had encountered, whom they see as having to fend for themselves without any visible social support network, and were determined to avoid such a fate for themselves. Thus a dilemma appears to exist for female migrants between their desire for autonomy and freedom from patriarchal practices that they perceive is possible in Canada, and the respect and care that is accorded to the old within family and community structures in Ghana.

Conclusion The zones of safety, security and danger, and where they are to be found within a changing global political economy, emerge as important considerations for both continuing and returned Ghanaian migrants. As I have demonstrated elsewhere, migrants make careful determinations about their destinations to ensure successful entry, although unluckily for a few, their attempt can end in death on the high seas or elsewhere (Manuh 1998, 2000). For those who succeed, there is often a scaling down of expectations, as the reality of life in the migrant society sharply contrasts with their misconceptions of the riches that they had hoped to make in a short space of time. In the long excerpts reproduced from interviews with returnees, it becomes clear that the intensity of work and the demands on their time culminate in their experience of ‘just existing’, compared to the ‘living’ that they enjoy on their return to Ghana. In order to be able to return to live successfully in Ghana, however, migrants have to plan and adopt a variety of strategies. These include multiple visits to Ghana, the acquisition of land for house-building, developing a business and the decision to let one’s spouse – usually the wife – stay behind as an insurance against unsuccessful re-integration. Continuing migrants maintain links with family and friends in Ghana and elsewhere, and create new relations of fictive kinship through chieftaincy, ethnic and hometown associations. Through contacts and participation in events organized by Ghanaians in different locations in Europe and North America, a Ghanaian diaspora is forming and acquiring a definite character. This is aided by the circulation of songs and musical compositions reflecting the reality of the migrant experience and memories of home and family in Ghana. Such music finds its way back to Ghana where it becomes part of the genre of Ghanaian highlife music. The importation of food, clothing and other Ghanaian artefacts allow many migrants to live as ‘Ghanaians’, whether in Hamburg, Toronto, New York or London. 156

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In their interactions with one another, men and women struggle over the meanings of ‘home’ and ‘culture’ as they contest particular interpretations of the place and role of women and men, and the locational advantages that accrue to them. In these contestations, the role of the State as the source and enforcer of certain rights is crucial. For women in Toronto, the Canadian State appears benign as it extends protection from domestic abuse and provides social assistance, while some men interpret these same protections as ‘interference’ in their relations with their ‘women’. For such men, returning home to re-establish more patriarchal relations with women may be desirable. However, returned migrant women appear to be aware of their own contributions to whatever has been achieved or acquired during migration and see themselves as partners with their husbands, albeit in the altered conditions that confront them in Ghana where men unquestionably enjoy more rights in custom, if not in law. While Ghanaian law offers some protection for women, these are nowhere near what migrant women perceive as existing under Canadian law. For such women, therefore, guarantees of their rights are to be found more in their strengthened positions in their marital homes and kinship structures and the economic enterprises that they are able to set up to guarantee them an independent income. In contrast, returned male migrants expect to put into practice some of the political ideas and principles acquired during migration and look forward to participating in the political space afforded them in Ghana. In all these ways, men and women seek to extend their own zones of personal security and safety in the face of the inexorable economic conditions that confront them nationally and globally, making use of the State and its protection where they exist, or relying on themselves and their own networks of family, friends and associates.

Notes 1 There is a genre of highlife music called ‘burgher highlife’ that originated with Ghanaians in Germany and is very popular in Ghana. 2 See my translation of excerpts from the lyrics of Sika Asem in Jane Guyer (ed.) 1994: xiii. 3 Data for this section and those that follow is from the fieldwork I conducted for my PhD dissertation in Toronto in 1996 and details the underemployment and lack of economic adaptation in his study of migrants in Toronto. 4 Opoku-Dapaah (1993) details the underemployment and lack of economic adaptation in his study of migrants in Toronto.

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References Anderson, B., 1983, Imagined Communities, London: Verso. Anyemedu, K., 1993, ‘The Economic Policies of the PNDC’, in Gyimah-Boadi, E. (ed.) Ghana Under PNDC Rule, Dakar: Codesria Books, pp. 13–47. Appadurai, A., 1990, ‘Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy’, Theory, Culture and Society, 7: 295–310. Barrett, M., 1980, Women’s Oppression Today, London:Verso. Basch, L., Glick Schiller, N. and Szanton Blanc, C., 1994, Nations Unbound, Langhorne, Pennsylvania: Gordon and Breach. Comaroff, J.L. and Comaroff, J. (eds), 1987, ‘The Madman and the Migrant’, American Ethnologist, 14, 2 (February): 198–211. Darko, A., 1995, Beyond the Horizon, Oxford: Heinemann Publishers. Eades, J., 1987, Migrants, Workers and the Social Order, London and New York: Tavistock Publications. Foner, N., 1986, ‘Sex Roles and Sensibilities: Jamaican Women in New York and London’, in Simon, R.J. and Totowa, C.B.B., International Migration: The Female Experience, NJ: Rowman and Allanheld. Ghana Statistical Service, 1995, Migration Research Study in Ghana, vol. 1: Internal Migration; vol. 2: International Migration, Twum-Baah, K.A., Nabila, J.S. and Aryee, A.F. (eds) Accra, Project undertaken by Ghana Statistical Service (GHA/88/PO4) with Social Sector Policy Unit, MFEP (GHA/88/PO3). Grasmuck, S. and Pessar, P., 1991, Between Two Islands: Dominican International Migration, Berkeley: University of California Press. Greene, R.H., 1987, Ghana, Helsinki: World Institute for Development Economics Research. Guyer, J. (ed.), 1994, Money Matters, Portsmouth and London: Heinemann and James Currey. Hall, S., 1995, ‘New Cultures for Old’, in Massey, D. and Jess, P., (eds) A Place in the World? Places, Cultures and Globalization, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hannerz, U., 1989, ‘Notes on the Global Ecumene’, Public Culture, 1, 2: 66–75. Hart, K., 1971, ‘Migration and Tribal Identity among the Frafra of Ghana’, Journal of Asian and African Studies, 6 (January): 21–36. Hill, P., 1970, The Migrant Cocoa Farmers of Southern Ghana: A Study in Rural Capitalism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hondagneu-Sotelo, P., 1994, Gendered Transitions, Berkeley: University of California Press. King, R., 1995, ‘Migrations, Globalization and Place’, in Massey, D. and Jess, P. (eds) A Place in the World? Places, Cultures and Globalization, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Manuh, T., 1998, ‘Ghanaians, Ghanaian-Canadians and Asantes: Citizenship and Identity Among Migrants in Toronto’, Africa Today, 45, 3–4: 481–94. Manuh, T., 2000, ‘Migrants and Citizens: Economic Crisis in Ghana and the Search for Opportunity in Toronto, Canada’, Unpublished PhD Dissertation, Indiana University, Bloomington. Massey, D., 1992, ‘A Place called Home?’ New Formations, 17: 3–15.

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Massey, D., 1995, ‘The Conceptualization of Place’, in Massey, Doreen and Jess, Pat (eds) A Place in the World? Places, Cultures and Globalization, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Opoku-Dapaah, E., 1993, Adaptation of Ghanaian Refugees in Toronto, Toronto: York Lanes Press, Center for Refugee Studies, York University. Owusu, T.Y., 1996, ‘The Adaptation of Black African Immigrants in Canada: A Case Study of Residential Behavior and Ethnic Community Formation among Ghanaians in Toronto’, Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Toronto. Peil, M., 1995, ‘Ghanaians Abroad’, African Affairs, 94, 376: 345–67. Pessar, P., 1986, ‘The Role of Gender in Dominican Settlement in the United States’, in Nash, J. and Safa, H. (eds) Women and Change in Latin America, South Hadley, MA: Bergin and Garvey. Rimmer, D., 1993, Staying Poor: Ghana’s Political Economy 1950–1990, Oxford: Pergamon Press. Small, C.A., 1997, Voyages: From Tongan Villages to American Suburbs, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Twum-Baah, K. A., 1994, ‘Motivation in the Migration Process’, Paper presented at the Seminar on Social Science Research, University of Ghana, Legon, Mimeo.

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INDEX

Afewerki, Isaias 121 AFR’AM Festival, Norfolk, VA 83 Africaamerica Festival, Philadelphia 83 African Festival of the Arts, Chicago 83 African Heritage Festival International, New Orleans 83 African Market 90 African World Festival 83 Afrocentricity, marketing 12, 71–91; Afrocentric merchandise 79–83; mimetic framework 81–6; simulation 86–91 Age of Similacra 89 Akan 20 Alliance of Eritrean National Forces 119 Amin, Idi 4 Anglophone classification xi, 20 Anglo-Somali Society 39 Annual World Conference, Third 83 Appiah, Kwame Anthony 78 Asante, Molefi 73, 74–6, 86 Association of Somali Service Agencies 39 asylum applications: Burundian applications 25; Congolese 25, 26, 32; Francophone, in London 22–3, 24–7; Ivoirian 25, 26, 31, 32; Nigerian 25; Rwandese 25; Somali 25, 44, 46–7; Togolese 26 ‘asylum seekers’ 8 Bamba, Shjeik Amadou 97, 98

Bandele Publications 83 Baobab Africain 30 Barre, Siad 37, 39, 44 ‘Belgicains’ 125 Biafran War 64 bi-focal pan-African diaspora 59 bi-racialization 61, 62 Bisso na bisso 136 Black Expo 83, 86 Black Power Movement 59, 66 black resistance movements 2 ‘boat people’ xvi–xvii Boubakar, Ali 85 British Somali Society 44 Burundians 33; asylum applications 25 Carriers’ Liability Act 32 census, UK (1991) 19–20 Citizens for Peace (Canada) 114 Civil Rights Movement 59 classificatory systems of African populations xi Climbie, Anna 35 n. 13 Columbus, Christopher 57 community groups in London 27–32 Congo-Brazzaville 33 Congolese: asylum applications 25, 26, 32; commercial activities in the UK 29–30; diaspora 5, 124–36; in France 10; isolation in the UK 29; language 33; literature 124–36; in London 3, 17–18, 24, 27–31; music 124–36; publications 30, 33; religious

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INDEX

activity 30–1, 32; statistics in the UK 28 Creole languages 21 cultural diaspora 6, 10, 13 culture, copying 81–6 Daddy Lumba 144 Darko, Ama: Beyond the Horizon 144 Debré, Jean-Louis 136 n. 2 DEHAI 116–17, 119 Department for International Development (UK) 10 diaspora, definition of 4–7 diaspora space 61 Dinka cosmology ix–x, xiii, xiv, xvii n. 2–3 ‘dis-Africanization’ 59–60 discrimination 11 Eclaireur, L’ 30 efie, notion of 140–57 Englishness, notion of 60–1, 62 Eritrea Hilfswerk (Germany) 114 Eritrean Constitutional Commission 112 Eritrean Development Fund (USA) 114 Eritrean diaspora 4, 111–22; autonomous political linkages 116–17; channelling energies of 117–18; economic strains 120–1; exploitation of 119–20; financial contributions 115–16; links with Eritrean state 113–14, 118–21; mobilizing, during conflict 114–18; in the UK 9 Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF) 118, 122 Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF) 113, 118, 120, 122 Eritrean Relief Association (ERA) 113, 114, 117 Ethiopian Jews 37 European Union: entry to 24; Schengen Agreement 25, 46 exceptional leave to remain (ELR) status 24, 26 Exile africaine, L’ 32, 33 Fante 20

Fari, Sala 71–2 Fédération estudiantine et scolaire de Côte d’Ivoire 31 Forty Acres and a Mule 74 Franco, General 125 Franco-African summit (1990) 28 Francophone African settlement in London 11–12, 17–33; asylum applications 22–3, 24–7; population 17 Francophone classification xi, 20 Francophonie, Le 33 Fulan merchants 90 Garveyism 59 Geneva Convention (1951) 37, 48 Ghanaians: as labour diaspora 8; music 144–5; in Nigeria 4; place in migration 144–7; returned migrants 147–53; in Toronto 145–7, 153–6 Grands Lacs 30 Gullah Festival, Beaufort 83 Harlem renaissance 59 Harouna, Soumana 84 Hausa merchants 72, 90 Hegel, F. 75 Hobsbawn, Eric 82 homogeneous/heterogeneous model (Wallman) 102 Horn Relief for the Warsangeli Darod 50 Houphouet-Boigny, President 28, 31 Igbo 20 ‘illegal’ immigration 8, 10, 27, 46–8 imperial diaspora 6 indigeneity, mythologies 60–1 integration 49–51 International Freedom Festival, Detroit 83 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 97 International Organisation for Migration (IOM) 6 Ivoirians: asylum applications 25, 26, 31, 32; language 33; in London 18, 24, 27, 31–2; political groupings 32;

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Mpiana, J.B. 128, 129 Mpoyi-Buatu, Thomas 126 Mudimbe, V.Y. 125 Multilingual Capital 21 music xi, 30; Congolese 124–36; Ghanaian 144–5 Muvunyi, Tharcisse 34 n. 9 myth of return 13

publications 32; religious activity 32 Jeune Afrique 30 Joint Voluntary Agency 47 Kabamba, Maguy 126; dette coloniale, La 127, 130–1, 134 Kant, Immanuel 75 Kanza, Lokua 132 Kanza, Thomas 125 Karenga, Maulena 76, 77 Kemet civilization 75–6 Koffi 134 Kokende na Poto 127–8 Kouao, Marie Therese 35 n. 13 Kwanzaa 76–9, 82 Kwanzaa Expos 79, 81

navigation, metaphor of xv Negritude Movement 59 New York City, West African traders in 71–91 Ngal, Georges 125 Ngoye, Achille 126; Kin-La Joie, Kin-la foli 127, 131 Niarchos, Stervos 128 Nigerian asylum applications 25 Nkashama, Pius Ngandu 125; Vie et moeurs d’un primitif en Essonne Quatre-vingt-onze 127, 132 nouvelle vague, la 12, 17–33 Nuer xiii–xiv, xvii n. 2–3 Nzau, A.J. 126; Traite au Zaïre 127 Nziem, Ndaywel è 125

labour diaspora 6, 8 Lee, Spike 72, 74, 82 Lema, Ray 132 Leopold II, King of Belgium 132 Lingala 21, 29, 33 linguistic diversity in London 20 Little, Malcolm see Malcolm X Lubumbashi University strikes (1990) 28 Ma’at, Principles of 86 Madiata 125 Malcolm Shabazz Harlem Market 81, 82, 86, 90–1 Malcolm X 72, 73, 74, 77, 82 Malcolm X (film) 82 Marché Africain/African Market, Atlanta 83, 90 Mayaki, Issifi 79, 84, 91 Mayola, Tommy Klen 35 n. 12 Midaynta 39 Migration for Development in Africa (MIDA) 6 Mikili 127, 137 n. 10 Mitterand, President François 28 mixed race 12, 56, 62–3, 64–6, 67 n. 4 Mobutu, President 28, 125, 126, 132–3, 135 Moja Arts Festival, Charleston 83 Mounkaila, Boubé 71–2, 73, 74, 79

Office de protection des réfugiés et aptrides 46 Olomide, Koffi 126 Organisation for African Unity (OAU) 6 pan-African movement x, 2, 10, 59 pay, low 29 People’s Front for Democracy and Justice (PFDJ) 114, 118, 121 polygyny 155 post-Colombian African diaspora 57, 58 Powell, Enoch 61 pre-Colombian African diaspora 57–8 ‘Quartier Latin’ 126 ‘race’, conceptions of 59–60, 62, 63 Ranger, Terrance 82 ‘Red Star Campaign’ 113 Refugee Act (1980) (USA) 47 Refugee Council 26, 27 refugee diaspora 12

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religious activity: Congolese 30–1, 32; Ivoirian 32; Somali 50 Restore Hope operation 47, 51 Rwandese 33; asylum applications 25; in London 18 sans-papiers 124, 136 n. 2 SAPE 126, 134, 136 n. 3 Schengen Agreement 25, 46 Schol of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) 20 Selassie, Haile 113 Senegalese: as ‘illegal’ migrants 8; in Italy 3, 8; Layenne brotherhood in 97; morality 97–8; Mouride Sufi brotherhood 96–8, 99, 101, 107; Quadryya brotherhood in 97; Tidianyya brotherhood 98; trading 13, 99–106; transnationalism in Italy 95–107; Wolof ethnic group xi–xii, 72, 90, 96, 99, 101 Shabazz, Dr Betty 74 Simon, Ruth 117 slavery 1–2, 3, 5, 58 Solomon Operation 38 Somali (language) 20–1 Somali Community Association 39 Somali London Community and Cultural Association 39 Somali Progressive Association in Cardiff 39 Somali Relief and Rehabilitation Association for the Isaaq 50 Somali Welfare Association 39 Somalia Environmental Protection and Anti-Desertification Organization for the Dolbahante Darod 50 Somalia ‘refugee’ diaspora 5 Somalis 3, 8, 37–53; asylum applications 25, 44, 46–7; as ‘asylum seekers’ 8; in Australia 45; in Canada 39, 45, 47; Darod clans

38–9, 44; diaspora 20–1; education 49; financial flows to the Horn of Africa 40–3, 50–2, 53; Hawiye clan 38; human smuggling (hambar) 48; illegal entry 47–8; Isaaq clan 39, 44; in Italy 45; Marehan clan 39; migration routes 46–8; Mijertein clan 39; in the Netherlands 38, 46, 47–8; refugee status 48; religion 50; in Sweden 46–7; in the UK 39, 44–5; unemployment 50; in the USA 45–6, 47 Songhay merchants 90 Songhay people 73 Sonnike/Malinke merchants 72, 90 Spring Fling, Spartenburg 83 Swahili 20, 29, 33, 76 Tabu Ley 125 Togolese: asylum applications 26; language 32; in London 18 trade diaspora 6, 8, 99–100 Twi 20 Ugandan Asians 4, 37 unemployment 29 UNHCR 48 victim diaspora 6, 8, 12 Wemba, Papa 125, 126, 129, 136 n. 3 Wenge de Paris 134 Wenge Musica 126, 128 Wolof, Senegalese xi–xii, 96, 99, 101; merchants 72, 90 World Council of Churches 47 Yemeni migration 21, 44 Yoruba 20 Younoussa, Idé 83–4 ZACCA-Lisanga 31 Zaiko Langa Langa 125

163