Rabah Belamri
| Rabah Belamri | |
|---|---|
| Born | 11 October 1946 Bougaa, dans la région de Sétif, en Algérie |
| Died | 28 September 1995 (aged 48) Paris |
| Occupation | Writer |
Rabah Belamri (11 Octobrer 1946 – 28 September 1995) was an Algerian writer.
Rabah Belamri lost his sight in 1962. After studying at Sétif High School, at the École des jeunes aveugles in Algiers, at the École normale d'instituteurs of Bouzareah and at the University of Algiers, he arrived in 1972 in Paris where he supported a doctorate entitled L'œuvre de Louis Bertrand, Miroir de l'idéologie coloniale which was published by the Office des publications universitaires in 1980.
He obtained French nationality.
He is the author of several collections of poems, tales and novels inspired by his Algerian childhood. He was touched by the work of Jean Sénac to whom he devoted an essay and who he considered a guide.
He died on September 28 in 1995 in Paris following a surgery, leaving his work unfinished.
It is time to collect the treasures of our oral culture, threatened with disappearance by the tumult of television. Today, in Algeria, the vigils are organized around the small screen and the storytellers no longer have the time or no longer find the opportunity and the need to tell. (...) I tried, within the limits of my means, to save a fragment of our cultural heritage from oblivion. (...) These tales collected in dialectal Arabic, I had to translate them into French (...). There is no doubt that this language takes them out of their isolation and propels them into the sphere of the universal cultural heritage.
For Rabah Belamri, the indefatigable questioner of the world, poetry is no doubt only a means that participates, with others, in a quest for clarity and plenitude. A need for light as a long refused water but also a denunciation of all that strikes everyday life and hope: the alienated or bargained woman, the sequestered happiness.
He has breath, force, violence in the warmth and tenderness that testify to another earth, another sun than ours, in short of another tradition.
His work spoke of the difficulty of being, of exile, of solitude. But it also spoke to us of tenderness, it carried us away in its impulse towards the humiliated, towards all those whom contemporary violence crushed, abandoned.
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