Swedish filmmaker taps into the primary violence of the coloniser rather than the colonised, says Bhakti Shringarpure
SOURCE: the guardian
Concerning Violence, the latest documentary from Swedish filmmaker Göran Hugo Olsson, has been screening to packed audiences on the film festival circuit.
Olsson’s claim to fame, at least in the US, was a recent documentary – Black Power Mixtape – that brought together dormant archival footage from the Black Power movement. This documentary was appreciated partly because of the ease with which the material could be digested and the straightforward collage approach to the narrative.
Concerning Violence is a completely different beast.
Relying yet again on possibly forgotten footage from Swedish archives, the film has been anchored in Martinican psychiatrist and anti-colonial thinker Frantz Fanon’s controversial essay, Concerning Violence, from his 1961 book The Wretched of the Earth. I had the impression that we were being provided with a visual exegesis on Fanon’s famous, misunderstood, and over-read text about violence, and that the images, in fact, served to bolster, or rather, offer, a kind of choreography to the text.
Olsson’s interest is in decolonisation – that short yet potent moment at the tail end of an anti-colonial war followed by the transfer of power when the new nation comes into being. This has often proven to be one of the most violent episodes in post-colonial history, and Fanon is its most articulate philosopher.
The film’s subtitle, Nine Scenes from the Anti-Imperialistic Self-Defense, reflects Olsson’s investment in making Fanon’s theory relevant and up-to-date. The opening sequence offers a brief thrill which is immediately appropriated: helicopters whir in the air and soldiers shoot down terrified cows in a vast and lush field. This footage is reminiscent of Coppola’s war scenes in Apocalypse Now, but the illusion is immediately shattered as the camera closes in and holds on the face of a murdered cow, blood slowly trickling down from her nostrils.
This is the first scene out of the nine, titled Decolonization, and focuses on the People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA) in 1977 as it carries out a stealth attack on the Portuguese-ruled and oil-rich Cabinda province in Congo.
This footage is juxtaposed with that of white, pre-pubescent boys playing golf as African caddies follow them around carrying their clubs.
A throaty and assertive rendition of lines such as, “Decolonisation, which sets out to change the order of the world, is, obviously, a programme of complete disorder,” is delivered by singer, songwriter and activist Lauryn Hill, who reads Fanon’s passages on decolonisation, nationalism and violence. As she recites, Fanon’s words are also shown as text on the screen in a large serif font.
The chapters that follow build on a variety of themes using quotations from Concerning Violence and Colonial War and Mental Disorders, the first and last chapters of The Wretched of the Earth.
Olsson provides emotional and psychological theses on African decolonisation, such as Indifference, in which a young South African professor speaks of five years spent in jail and the lack of feeling that liberation produced in him; That Poverty of Spirit, in which a Scandinavian missionary couple sheepishly holds forth on changing African culture and values under the thin veil of Christianity; and then Defeat, which graphically shows Portuguese soldiers suffering heavy casualties in the Guinea Bissau war of independence.
There are also chapters dedicated to places and political parties, such as Rhodesia, featuring an infuriating interview with a white man in what is nowZimbabwe as he basks in unabashed racism while referring to his man servant as a “stupid thing”, all the while holding forth on the impending end of white privilege and his fears of a violent reckoning.
In Lamco, Liberia, 1966, Olsson introduces suspenseful footage of a strike in the Liberian town of Nimba where the Swedish firm Lamco (Liberian-American-Swedish minerals company) is using coercive measures to stop its employees from striking. Meanwhile the Liberian government has decided to encircle the workers’ quarters with heavily armed soldiers.
The chapter entitled The Fiat G.91 pays heed to Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s commentary on the role of women in liberation wars, in which we see rare interviews with women freedom fighters from the Mozambique Liberation Front (Frelimo), who are in the midst of countering napalm attacks by Nato G.91 aircraft.
There is a strong focus on decolonisation in Lusophone spaces such as Guinea-Bissau, Angola and Mozambique, though these countries constitute only a fraction of the global anticolonial movement at a time when most colonies were dominated by Great Britain and France.
The filmmaker’s native Sweden did support the African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde (PAIGC), led by the dynamic Amilcar Cabral, who also visited Sweden in 1968. That same year, Sweden supported a UN resolution calling for self-rule for the Portuguese colonies inAfrica.
Perhaps this explains the ample availability of footage from those regions, and also Olsson’s special interest in it. I was certainly grateful for this particular quirk of the film given the general dearth of images and debate about Portuguese colonialism and António de Oliviero Salazar’s authoritarian regime, which fought hard to retain a hold over these places.
As images of war flooded the screen, I became concerned that this would be yet another work turning Fanon into a “prophet” of violence, a reading of his work which has held sway, at least in academia, for decades now.
Fanon’s posthumously published The Wretched of the Earth has often been viewed as a call to violent action against the coloniser, as a radical militant anthem for all oppressed peoples, and as a deeply controversial ideology of resistance.
Terminably ill with cancer and fully aware that this was to be his legacy, it seemed that this book was his attempt to make a larger contribution towards a theory about colonialism in the African continent. It was in the anxious haste of a prodigal 10 weeks in which Fanon composed and dictated The Wretched of the Earth to his wife, Josie.
Though Fanon was a spokesperson for Algeria’s National Liberation Front (FLN), an ardent radical writer for the revolutionary Algerian newspaper El Moujahid, a psychiatrist for fighters and tortured combatants and a staunch critic of the French left, his posthumous fame became focused on his one singular observation about violence during decolonisation.
He wrote that decolonisation “fundamentally alters” the colonised man’s sense of self: “It infuses a new rhythm, specific to a new generation of men, with a new language and new humanity. Decolonisation is truly the creation of new men.”
This observation about the new men formed through the use of violence has been consistently viewed as a detrimental and dangerous idea. The Wretched of the Earth was banned in France as soon as it came out and copies were seized from bookstores. Prominent French left-leaning intellectuals of the time, such as Jean Daniel, author of La Blessure, and Jean-Marie Domenach, editor of Espirit, were disgusted by Fanon’s theories on violence and felt that they reeked of revenge.
But according to Fanon, colonial violence begins with the coloniser, who “does not alleviate oppression or mask domination. He displays and demonstrates them with the clear conscience of the law enforcer, and brings violence into the homes and minds of the colonised subject.” During decolonisation, it is this unchecked, destructive and tireless violence that is “appropriated” by the colonised.
Using a generalised psychological analysis for colonised people (a population he frequently treated as a psychiatrist and knew intimately), Fanon explains the process that leads an oppressed individual to employ violence. He creates an emblematic portrait of the colonised man living in an atmosphere where a reservoir of repressed fury is beginning to manifest itself consciously, and the desire to be a “man” instead of the “thing colonised” is omnipresent.
He writes: “The muscles of the colonised are always tensed. It is not that he is anxious or terrorised, but he is always ready to change his role as game for that of hunter. The colonised subject is a persecuted man who is always dreaming of becoming the persecutor.” In fact, even the dreams of the colonised are infused with a physicality, action and “aggressive vitality”. Through these, he unconsciously frees himself.
Fanon’s biographer, David Macey, gives the controversy some breathing room by elaborating the chain of events that led to dissemination of his ideas about violence.
In Frantz Fanon: A Biography, Macey writes about the way Jean-Paul Sartre’s misreads Fanon in his preface: “Sartre wholeheartedly endorses the thesis that violence can be cleansing or even therapeutic, and that the colonised man cures himself of his colonial neurosis by driving out the colon by force of arms.”
For Fanon, however, there was nothing mythical about violence in Algeria. It was simply a daily reality. Sartre’s preface thus overshadowed Fanon’s actual work. Jean Daniel and many other thinkers from the French left gave it far more attention than they did Fanon’s actual book. The preface had taken on “a life of its own,” and when Sartre officially supported the Zionist cause, Josie Fanon asked for the preface to be omitted from all future editions of The Wretched of the Earth.
Macey does not falsify Fanon’s thesis on violence and admits that it did exist at the crux of his work, and that his limited political experience often led him to commit all kinds of strategic blunders. He writes:
Here, Macey reveals the reverse manner in which Fanon’s work had been received. It was not that Fanon issued a call for violence and it occurred. Violence was everywhere in Algeria, and he wrote of it as inevitable to a revolution in which he had a profound faith.
In this documentary, Olsson builds layer upon layer of images showing abject poverty, racism, over-worked people, crude guerrilla warfare countering slick European planes, places where natural resources like oil and diamonds are being unearthed with appalling living conditions for workers, and hospitals overflowing with wounded women, children and men.
In so doing, he taps into the primary violence of the coloniser, rather than of the colonised, falling definitively into the camp of thinkers who believe that Fanon was not propagating violence but merely understanding it’s effects and uses.
Close readers of Fanon’s work will be surprised by an ominous absence in Concerning Violence – namely, Algeria, the place where Fanon’s understanding of colonialism, his practice of psychiatry, and his scholarship came full circle. Olsson’s detachment from showing Algeria or, in fact, anything biographical about Fanon, including even a photo of him, is refreshing. There is no hagiography at all in this film, only a commitment to the subaltern histories.