Press Review

Tablets of Chanteroels
De l’écriture de l’art, à l’art de l’écriture

From writing to writing

(April 2003)

Messages on rocks two thousand years old, a few hundred kilometers away from Tamanrasset. Their appearance is close to that of the graffiti in our western cities. Like them, they convey the burden of day-to-day life and all the madness of men…

I, El Ghani, son of Mahaya, have killed everybody in the camp. I am contemplating what I have done and am thrilled. I can travel up to Aïr or Ajjer because I feel at home wherever I go. I can set up my tents wherever I want. Nobody can stop me from doing so.

I, Hamada, son of Barakane. I, Hamada, the chief of the camp. Neither children nor donkeys are left here. I, Hamada, swear to chase down my enemies. I have got a sword and the one who can stop me from using it has not yet been born. Farewell to the blue-faced girls with their necklaces. I curse the one who forces me to leave. I will not come back until I am covered with his blood and wearing his skin, for he has burnt my heart. I swear to it. O moon, guide my way for I am going to dangerous places, where my enemies are. I am leaving with eleven camels and my nephew.

I, Soussamate, daughter of Zasset, disagree. The children will be left orphans. The women will not forgive you.