Humanity in Algiers

Last week we discussed how we can read domestic violence and the economic exchange of women’s bodies in Sansay’s Secret History as an allegory for racial violence and slavery. I think the preface of Humanity in Algiers is so blunt about reading slavery in Algiers against slavery in the US that it can hardly even be called allegory.

“With the same impropriety on our part do we reprobate the Algerines. ‘A vile, piratical set of unprincipled robbers,’ is the softest name we can give them; forgetful of our former depredations on the coasts of Africa, and the cruel manner in which we at present treat the offspring of those whom we brought from thence.” (4)

This preface sets the text up not only as a mirror to illuminate the injustice of American slavery, but suggests that any violence Americans suffer at the hands of North Africans is predictable retribution for previous American violence against them––chickens coming home to roost. This is a strong position from which to begin the narrative. So as I read the story, when I came across passages that made it seem like the author was taking a moderate stance or arguing for gradualism, I took it with a grain of salt. Suggesting that African Muslims are just as human as white, Christian Americans would be a hard pill to swallow for a pro-slavery audience. I read some of these “reasonable” moments as actually particularly radical.

For example, Omri, whom I understand to be kind of like the moral compass of the narrative, is troubled when he is unable to persuade Azem’s new master to allow him to return to his previous family. He prays, “O God! what has this thy creature done, that thou hast ordained for him eternal chains? Surely thy goodness will not punish without a cause, nor thy mercy inflict without a reason. But thy ways are mysterious, thy wisdom unsearchable, and the secrets of thy providence past finding out. I submit” (9). Initially, this sounded like an argument for gradualism by just “leaving it in God’s hands,” so to speak. But I think that coming from Omri, who helps lead Sequida to the more righteous path, this prayer is not washing his own hands of Azem’s fate, but aligning his purpose with God’s.

This moment is a bit more nuanced, but there are other passages where I think the critique of American slavery is more clear.

For example, at the beginning when the man offers to buy the American’s freedom, the narrator writes, “I replied, that, although I respected my master, I had left a wife and child in America; and that, of all blessings, to me a sight of them would be the greatest” (5). This struck me as absurd––of course the man would want to return home to his family. It seemed odd that he would mention respect for his master at all. I wondered if the audience for this text would have reacted similarly. The absurdity of an enslaved white man expressing respect for his African slaver highlights the injustice of even seemingly “benevolent” American slave masters.

Similarly, Selictor and Sequida are haunted by their decision to sell Azem instead of setting him free, though they had no contractual obligation to do so. They chose economic stability over moral obligation and grew to regret it. This turns on its head the “reasonable” argument that America, particularly the South, was economically dependent on slavery and that it was unjust to put those slave owners in an economically compromised position. 

So, in conclusion, I think the narrative begins with a strong position against slavery and continues to develop that position through the narrative, even in moments when the rhetoric is more measured and nuanced.