(Original French text)
Aux Tirailleurs sénégalais morts pour la France
Voici le Soleil
Qui fait tendre la poitrine
des vierges
Qui fait sourire sur les
bancs verts les vieillards
Qui réveillerait les morts sous une terre maternelle.
J’entends le bruit des canons – est-ce d’Irun?
On fleurit les tombes, on réchauffe le Soldat
Inconnu.
Vous mes frères obscurs, personne ne vous nomme.
On promet cinq cent mille de vos enfants à la gloire
des futures morts, on les
remercie
d’avance futures morts obscures
Die schwarze Schande!
Ecoutez-moi, Tirailleurs sénégalais, dans la solitude
de la terre noire et de la mort
Dans votre solitude sans yeux sans oreilles, plus que
dans ma peau sombre au fond de la
Province
Sans même la chaleur de vos camarades couchés tout
contre vous, comme jadis
dans
la tranchée jadis dans les palabres du village
Ecoutez-moi, Tirailleurs à la peau noire, bien que
sans oreilles et sans yeux
dans
votre triple enceinte de nuit.
Nous n’avons pas loué de pleureuses, pas même les
larmes de vos femmes anciennes
-- Elles ne se rappellent que vos grands coups de colère,
préférant l’ardeur des vivants.
Les plaintes des pleureuses trop claires
Trop vite asséchés les joues de vos femmes, comme en
saison sèche les torrents du Fouta
Les larmes les plus chaudes trop claires et trop vite
bues au coin des lèvres
oublieuses.
Nous vous apportons, écoutez-nous, nous qui épelions
vos noms dans les mois
que
vous mouriez
Nous, dans ces jours de peur sans mémoire, vous apportions
l’amitié de vos
camarades
d’âge.
Ah! puissé-je un jour d’une voix couleur de braise,
puissé-je chanter
L’amitié des camardes fervente comme des entrailles
et delicate, forte
comme
des tendons.
Ecoutez-nous, Morts étendus dans l’eau au profound
des plaines du Nord
et
de l’Est.
Recevez ce sol rouge, sous le soleil d’été ce sol
rougi du sang des blanches hosties
Rcevez le salut de vos camarades noirs, Tirailleurs
sénégalais
MORTS POUR LA REPUBLIQUE!
Tours, 1938
Source: Léopold Sédar Senghor, Oeuvre poétique. Paris:
Editions du Seuil, 1990, pp. 65-67.
To Senegalese Sharpshooters Who Died For France
Here is the Sun
That makes virgins’ chests stick out
That makes old men smile on benches
That would awaken the dead under a maternal earth.
I hear the sound of cannons – Is it from Irun?
They are placing flowers on tombs; they are reheating
the Unknown Soldier.
You, my obscure brothers, no one names you.
They promise five hundred thousand of your children
to the glory of the future dead;
they
thank them in advance future obscure dead
The black dishonor!
Listen to me, Senegalese sharpshooters, in the
solitude of the black earth and death
In your solitude without eyes without ears, more than
my dark skin in the depths of the
French
provinces
Without even the heat of your comrades asleep next to
you, as in days of yore in the
trenches
as in days of yore during village discussions
Listen to me, black skinned sharpshooters, albeit
without ears and without eyes in
your
triple night enclosure.
We did not hire female lamenters, not even the tears
of your ancient wives
-- They remember only your big expressions of anger,
preferring the ardor of
the
living.
The moans of the too clear female lamenters
The cheeks of your wives dried too quickly as in the
dry season the torrents of the
Fouta
The hottest tears too clear and too quickly drunk at
the corner of forgetful lips.
We bring you, listen to us, we who spelled your names
during the months when
you
died
We, in these days of fear without memory, we bring
you the friendship of your
comrades
of your age.
Ah! would that I were able one day with a voice the
color of embers, would that
I
were able to sing
The friendship of comrades fervent like intestines
and delicate, strong like tendons.
Listen to us, the Dead spread out in the water in the
depths of the Northern and Eastern
plains.
Receive this red soil, under the summer sun this soil
reddened by the blood of
white
hosts
Receive greetings from your black comrades,
Senegalese sharpshooters
WHO DIED FOR THE REPUBLIC!
Tours, 1938
Léopold Sédar Senghor
(1906-2001) claimed that he wrote this poem in 1938 in the French provincial
city of Tours
where he taught French and Latin, but Senghor frequently put false dates on his
poems in order to hide the overtly autobiographical inspiration for many of his
poems. The presence of the three German
words “die schwarze Schande” at the end of the first stanza in his poem “To the
Senegalese Sharpshooters Who Died For France” strongly suggests that he could
not have written this poem before June 1940 when he became a prisoner of war of
the Nazis. It was between June 1940 and
his release from a prisoner of war stalag in early 1942 that he learned
German. The only books to which he had
access in these stalags were a German grammar book, a German-French dictionary,
and Goethe’s Faust that he read in the original German.
Senghor was a Senegalese
intellectual who earned a M.A. in French literature from the University of Paris
and in 1935 he became the first black African to pass the rigorous agrégation exam, which guarantees a
permanent teaching position in a French high school or university. He passed the exam in French and Latin
grammar. These very real academic
accomplishments did not cause Senghor to forget his humble birth in the coastal
Senegalese village
of Joal. He never lost contact with his native
culture. While he was studying in Paris during the early 1930s, he made two lifelong
friends: the Martinique poet Aimé Césaire with
whom he created the literary movement
that they called “la Négritude” or “blackness”
and Georges Pompidou, who served as the French President from 1969 to
1974. For Senghor and Césaire “la Négritude” meant expressing the experience of
being black in the French-speaking world in a way that would appeal to readers
of all races, languages, and countries.
Senghor and Césaire strove to describe the dignity of ordinary black
people and to convey the authentic values of black and African cultures. Senghor read early drafts of his poems to
Pompidou in order to make sure that his poems had a universal appeal.
Senghor came to realize
that his excellent education received first in Senegal
and later in France
and his extraordinary mastery of the French language gave him the chance to
speak for those humble black people who did not have the opportunity to be
heard.
Although during his long
life of 95 years, Senghor received many great honors such as his service from
1960 until 1980 as the first President of Senegal and his entrance into the
august French Academy in 1984 as its first black
African member, he never became vain or haughty. He understood that it was his calling to
speak for those black Africans whom others had not respected.
During the French colonial
period, black West Africans who fought for France were called Senegalese
sharpshooters whether they were from Mali, Mauritania, the Ivory Coast,
Senegal, Upper Volta (now Burkina Faso), Dahomey (now Benin), or Togo. In the
minds of the French non-commissioned and commissioned officers under whom they
served valiantly in both World Wars, the lives of these black soldiers were
expendable and less valuable than those of white French soldiers. In horrendous battles such as Verdun in World War I,
Senegalese sharpshooters were frequently sent on suicide missions across open
fields and they suffered a higher percentage of deaths in World
War I than white soldiers
from France
did. In World War II, Senegalese
sharpshooters were among the first French units to join the Free French Forces
under the command of General Charles de Gaulle and unlike many regiments of
white French soldiers, Senegalese sharpshooters never betrayed France by
collaborating with the Nazis. Despite
their heroism, Senegalese sharpshooters consistently received smaller pensions
than did white French veterans. In French West Africa, however, these black veterans were
held in the highest esteem and they quickly became leaders in their villages
and cities after their faithful service in the French Colonial Army.
In 1939, Senghor was
called back to active military service.
Since he was then a French citizen living in France, Senghor served in the
regular French Army and not in the French Colonial Army. In June 1940, the French government under
Marshall Philippe Pétain surrendered to the Nazis and many French soldiers,
including Senghor, became prisoners of war. On his very first day as a prisoner
of war, Senghor experienced the Nazis’ brutal racism. Nazi guards lined Senghor and Senegalese
sharpshooters against a wall and a firing squad prepared to execute them when
suddenly these patriotic black soldiers cried out in unison: “Vive la France! Vive
l’Afrique noire!” (Long live France! Long live Black Africa!) This unexpected reaction caused the Nazis not
to shoot these black soldiers. Rather,
the Nazis decided to torture them into submission. Torture did not work because Senghor and the
other black soldiers in the stalag endured repeated beatings and maintained
their honor. This lengthy encounter with
overt racism showed Senghor that in the eyes of racists he was not a
distinguished university graduate but rather nothing more than a black
man. In early 1942, he was released from
a stalag near Poitiers
because his Nazi guards mistook his health problems for an infectious tropical
disease. He was nursed back to health by
Georges and Claude Pompidou whom he had met in Paris during his student days. Georges Pompidou and Senghor remained close
friends until Pompidou’s death in April 1974 from multiple myeloma. Soon after his friend’s death, Senghor wrote
an exquisite elegy to console the grieving widow, Claude Pompidou. After his health improved, Senghor resumed
teaching, became active in the French Resistance, and began writing poems that
he eventually published in two books entitled Chants d’ombre, 1945 (Songs
from the Shadows) and Hosties noires, 1948 (Black Hosts or Black
Victims).
Many of these moving poems
have remained justly famous. Two of
Senghor’s most beloved poems, inspired by his captivity in stalags, are “Joal”
in which he recalls beautiful memories from his childhood in his native village of Joal and “To the Senegalese
Sharpshooters Who Died For France,” which is the fourth of the twenty poems in
his 1948 book Hosties noires. The
very title of this book of poems is deliberately ambiguous. The word “hostie” can mean “host,” as in
communion host, or victim. The words
“Hosties noires” associate the suffering of black victims of racism and slavery
with Christ’s crucifixion that is repeated in each Catholic mass. As a devout and practicing Catholic, Senghor
believed in the real presence of Christ in consecrated hosts.
The “Sun” that Senghor
mentions in the first line evokes the literal sun that brings warmth and joy to
both the young and old but also the divine light that only the dead can
see. Senghor “hears” cannons in the
distance and he asks himself if this noise comes from the Spanish border town
of Irun. He then compares unknown Senegalese
sharpshooters, whom he calls his “obscure brothers,” to the “Unknown Soldier”
buried under Paris’
Arc de Triomphe. Senghor then wonders if
“five hundred thousand” future black soldiers will join in death other black
soldiers who died for France
in earlier wars. Nazi racists might
mistake such massive self-sacrifice for a “black dishonor,” but true people of
good faith realize that these ordinary soldiers gave their lives for a higher
goal, the ideal of Liberty, Fraternity, and
Equality proclaimed in the motto of the French Republic
for which they died.
In the second stanza,
Senghor calls upon these revered dead to listen to him as he compares his
suffering in a stalag with their solitude in death. His sleeping next to other black soldiers in
decrepit barracks reminds him of Senegalese sharpshooters who endured great
suffering in the filthy trenches of World War I, but he suggests that serious
discussions in trenches continued conversations that had begun earlier in
peaceful villages in West Africa. Although these dead soldiers are now “without
eyes and without ears” because their corpses have decayed “in the solitude of
the black earth” of France,
Senghor is still praising them despite “the night’s triple enclosure” in which
they sleep for eternity. This elegy of
praise enables their heroism to live not only in the minds and hearts of black
Africans but also in the minds and hearts of all people of good will who
respect the memory of soldiers who died in order to protect us from tyranny and
racism.
In the third stanza,
Senghor evokes the ancient funeral tradition of public lamentation, which is
still practiced by the Serers, the ethnic group to which Senghor belonged. Among the Serers “crying women” or lamenters
honor the dead during funeral services and this is a very public way of
expressing grief and sorrow. “Lamenters”
also exist in other traditional cultures such as Ireland where “keeners” or public
lamenters chant songs of grieving. Such
lamentations also evoke the famous lamentations of Jeremiah in the Old
Testament that Senghor knew so well.
With great tact and skill Senghor associates this poem of praise for
Senegalese sharpshooters with ancient Biblical and Senegalese practices. Although “tears” may seem to dry as quickly
as “torrents of water” in the arid Fouta region in Senegal, these same “tears”
on “forgetful lips” will always stay in the hearts and minds of black African
men and women who will never forget the courage and heroism of such exemplary
heroes.
The final stanza in this
exquisite poem expresses the eternal respect that even Senegalese not yet born
will have for these soldiers who gave their lives for a French Republic
that did not properly honor the sacrifices of these patriotic Senegalese
sharpshooters. It is not just the
admiration from comrades of their own age that these revered dead have earned
but also that from all their “black comrades” who are eager to spread “red
soil” from Senegal on the
graves of Senegalese sharpshooters buried in the black soil of France. These
heroes have clearly earned the right to receive the real presence of Christ in
the “white hosts” of Holy Communion. The
“black victims” who “died for the French
Republic” have been
transformed into “white hosts” just as simple bread becomes the real body of
Christ during a Catholic mass.
Senghor’s exquisite elegy
“To the Senegalese Sharpshooters Who Died for France” illustrates well his
extraordinarily evocative use of language and his ability to transform an
apparently simple death elegy into a universal praise of all those who
sacrificed their lives for an ideal of divine origin, human dignity.
