Prior to reading A Savage War of Peace, I knew as much about Algeria as I do about Sanskrit morphology. A bit of Camus, a few memorable scenes from The Battle of Algiers, the puzzling lyrics to Rock the Casbah: that was pretty much the extent of my knowledge. I was dimly aware that France had fought a nasty colonial war there back in the 50s, but I had no idea just how terrible – and terribly momentous – the conflict was. I don’t think I can put it any more succinctly than the jacket copy of my NYRB edition:
The Algerian War lasted from 1954 to 1962. It caused the fall of six French governments, led to the collapse of the Fourth Republic, brought de Gaulle back to power, and came close to provoking a civil war on French soil. More than a million Muslim Algerians died in the conflict and as many European settlers were driven into exile. Above all, the war was marked by an unholy marriage of revolutionary terror and state torture.
Note the subtle claim to contemporary relevance in that last sentence. Even without knowing that A Savage War of Peace found an unlikely niche market in the Bush White House or that Ariel Sharon kept a copy on his bedside table, you can’t help but draw parallels between the French experience in Algeria and the West’s current imbroglios in the Islamic world. Insofar as the historical narrative is about a modern military power getting desperately entangled in a ‘backward’ Arab country, the temptation to view it as a rough draft of the Iraq War is almost irresistible. My own feeling, however – and please bear in mind that I’m just some random netizen with zero expertise in such matters – is that the Algerian War presents so many local peculiarities that its lessons are not easily reducible to the bite-size chunks that policy-makers presumably require.
Take, for instance, the exquisite dilemma posed in Algeria by the pieds noirs. These were the European colonists who farmed the land and staffed the local administration. Not all of them were grands bourgeois; not all were congenital reactionaries (the liberal Camus was one of them), but taken as a whole, they represented an exploitative and rapacious oligarchy whose power – both in Algeria and in metropolitan France – was out of all proportion to their numbers. Horne makes it clear that the war might have been avoided had this class displayed a modicum of political generosity, of simple justice, towards the native Muslim population. Although the author’s sympathies – culturally if not morally – are with the French, he emphasizes time and again the fatal stupidity of the pieds noirs. Wallowing in what Horne calls ‘the egotistical isolationism of their despair,’ they allowed their (sometimes legitimate) political aspirations to sour into an ugly strain of fascism. By the middle years of the war, they were engaging in tit-for-tat terrorism and inveigling the French army into open rebellion, thereby undermining their own cause.
Of the many expository threads woven together in the book, the most eye-opening for me was the one detailing the cleavage between the French military and the civil government. As someone who’d always uncritically accepted the Anglo-American stereotype of the French as a bunch of ‘cheese-eating surrender monkeys’, I was amazed to discover how ruthlessly competent the French army actually was. In fact, that was just the problem: it was too good. Its tough and experienced field commanders – men who’d cut their teeth in the Resistance and spent years in the jungle fighting the Viet Minh -- kept running ahead of the dithering politicians of the Fourth Republic, which was paralyzed by endless squabbles between Left and Right. Horne quotes de Gaulle’s acute assessment of the case:
Taking upon itself not only the burden of the fighting but also the severity, and sometimes the beastliness, of the repression…haunted by fear of another Indo-China…the army, more than any other body, felt a growing resentment against a political system which was the embodiment of irresolution.
This schism was to lead to the most incredible development of the war: the attempted coup d’etat hatched within the upper echelons of the Algerian occupation army. The plotters had already seized Corsica, and were getting ready to drop elite parachute regiments on Paris, when de Gaulle came out of retirement and averted a civil war at the last possible moment. And this was merely the first in a series of insurrections and failed putsches, all of which had some of the residual glamour, the broad gestures, of 1789 or 1871.
The most dispiriting chapter in this profoundly dispiriting book is the one on torture. There’s absolutely no doubt the French tortured prisoners – in an ad hoc manner initially, but later on, as the war turned vicious and the Gallic instinct for systematization kicked in, methods were refined and special interrogation units set up (and yes, if it counts for anything, the Algerians were every bit as barbaric in their own way, though they tended to prefer mutilation, both pre- and post-mortem). To what extent torture was officially sanctioned, though, is another question. It would appear the government was genuinely in the dark about it at first, and once they did clue in, tried to put a stop to it (and certainly de Gaulle, when he came along, gave explicit orders forbidding it). The problem was that, at some point, the army had gone completely off the reservation, and thereafter was only nominally subject to civilian oversight.
To be sure, there were dissenting voices, even within the military, and a few junior officers risked their careers opposing the ‘beastliness’, as de Gaulle called it. Horne tells the remarkable story of one such hero, a police functionary named Teitgen. During the Battle of Algiers, he was confronted with a real-life version of the classic ticking time bomb scenario. A Communist had been caught planting a bomb at a gasworks. A second bomb was suspected, but the man refused to talk. Thousands of lives were at stake, and Teitgen was under intense pressure to ‘put the man to the question’. But Teitgen, who had himself been tortured by the Gestapo in Dachau, was adamantly opposed. In his own words:
I refused to have him tortured. I trembled the whole afternoon. Finally the bomb did not go off. Thank God I was right. Because if you once get into the torture business, you’re lost…
He resigned soon after.
The last word on the subject should go to Camus, who employs the simplest and noblest argument against torture that I know of: ‘It is better to suffer certain injustices than to commit them.’ Amen.
In the end, neither side really won the war. The French betrayed their own ideals in a grubby fight to hold on to unjust prerogatives, and wound up losing everything: colony, prestige and national self-respect. The Algerians, meanwhile, gained their freedom at the cost of appalling sacrifices, only to throw it away on the shabbiest type of military dictatorship.
My God, history is depressing. Maybe it’s time to read some summer fluff.