|A Theatre Group called "Gypsies" plays on on inhumanity of the deportations|
In France I have come to understand, in the words of one of its greatest writers, that I carry my exile within me. In France I have come to understand that my exile is not a discomfort of place or of city, of culture or of language, but that the vexation and dilemma of being an outsider is imagined. It is imagined in the sense that exile is the refuge I choose from those structures that are erected as a matter of survival and self-definition by all societies, not just in France. Albert Camus’ exiles, whether they be painters, Algerians, intellectuals, poor or adulterers oscillate between belonging and exile, being rooted and rootless, between speech and silence against the background of a war in Algeria, the demise of a colonial empire, and intense hostility to the "other." The social structures that offer Camus’ exiles a public identity are, apparently, more immediate, thus more inviting of conflict and aggression than are those of the France in which I live today. And Camus' exiles are, not like me, they are not white, middle-class, educated women carrying Australian passports.
|Luigi Loir, La Place de la République,|
|A lonely bird on the steps of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France|