Loneliness of the Freelance Employee: Tahar Ben Jelloun

Le Monde as a place of power, rivalry and exclusion

Tahar Ben Jellouns Pigiste au Monde (2026) is neither an institutional history of the newspaper Le Monde Yet another linear autobiography, here the author writes a memory-laden account of almost four decades of journalistic work "à la pige." The figure of the pigist serves as a metaphor for structural precarity. The status of the freelancer exemplifies an existence caught between recognition and interchangeability. Ben Jelloun reveals how deeply intellectual work is characterized by insecurity, dependency, and symbolic violence—even at the heart of cultural power.

Le Monde The newspaper appears simultaneously as a democratic institution and a social microsystem. Ben Jelloun does not idealize the paper; he portrays it as a site of power, rivalry, and exclusion. It is precisely this ambivalence that lends the portrait its analytical sharpness: the newspaper becomes a mirror of French political and cultural self-understanding. The starting point is the young author's entry into the editorial staff in 1973—arranged through personal encounters—which simultaneously marks a social and symbolic ascent: from a precarious worker and literacy teacher to a publishing intellectual at one of Europe's most influential newspapers. This initiation is not heroized, but rather recounted as a mixture of euphoria, physical tension, and existential uncertainty.

Pigiste au Monde Ben Jelloun does not conceive of journalism as the neutral dissemination of information. He understands journalistic writing as an ethical obligation to the invisible and marginalized. His texts are imbued with outrage, solidarity, and personal responsibility. Objectivity appears not as an absence of conviction, but as precise observation and honesty of position. The text unfolds as a chronicle of everyday journalistic life, in which newsrooms, rituals, hierarchies, and personalities emerge vividly. Ben Jelloun portrays Le Monde as a moral authority of the post-war period, but also as a fragile structure of vanities, loyalties, and power struggles. Especially the literary supplement. The world of books It appears as an intellectual nexus where literary criticism, friendship, and symbolic capital intersect. The famous "Déjeuners du lundi" provide a social stage where literary circles and political stances intersect.

In parallel, the book develops a poetics of reportage that repeatedly takes Ben Jelloun to borderlands: to the forgotten North African workers in French banlieues, to Mecca as a "pilgrim of the poor," to Iraq, and to Kuwait on the brink of authoritarianism. These reports combine ethnographic observation with moral outrage and deliberately question journalistic objectivity. The author writes as a participant, as a witness, as someone who is culturally connected yet remains detached.

Belonging, betrayal, and loneliness

In the final third, the text coalesces into a reflection on belonging, betrayal, and loneliness. The attacks, suspicions, and attempts at political manipulation to which Ben Jelloun is subjected reveal how precarious his position as an Arab-Muslim author remains within the mainstream Western media. Whether in Mecca, the banlieues, or refugee camps, Ben Jelloun writes from spaces inaccessible to other journalists. His cultural affiliation grants him access but simultaneously generates accusations of betrayal. The boundary between insider and outsider perspectives remains productively unstable. The book concludes with the realization that writing itself—between journalism and literature—is the true locus of his authorship.

The attacks and instrumentalization are not a fringe phenomenon; they reveal how fragile the presence of an Arab-Muslim author in leading Western media remains. Ben Jelloun is tolerated, needed, attacked – but never entirely relieved of the obligation to constantly justify his existence. The turning point is the publication of his report on the Hajj in 1975. That an Arab-Muslim author in Le Monde His critical descriptions of the conditions in Mecca are seen as sacrilege by parts of the Muslim public. Ben Jelloun is publicly defamed as a "tramp," a "swindler," and even a "sionist." The accusation is not directed at journalistic errors, but rather at his affiliation: as a Muslim, he supposedly has no right to express criticism in a Western media outlet. Loyalty here is defined religiously and ethnically, not professionally.

Inside as well as outside of Le Monde Ben Jelloun's Arab-Muslim identity is repeatedly instrumentalized. Jacques Fauvet explicitly sends him to Mecca because "no other journalist is Muslim." This singular opening is ambivalent: it enables reporting, but at the same time permanently fixes him in the role of the "responsible Arab." His competence is tied to his origin, not to authorship—a classic form of symbolic instrumentalization.

Jean Daniel appears in Ben Jelloun's work as a media point of comparison, against which different models of intellectual affiliation can be discerned. As the founder of the Nouvel Observateur Daniel embodies the type of the legitimized, institutionally secured Jewish-French intellectual whose proximity to power, political actors, and the media establishment is never fundamentally questioned. In implicit contrast, Ben Jelloun's own position becomes apparent: While Jean Daniel, despite clear political stances, is considered a "natural" voice in French public discourse, Ben Jelloun remains, even after decades of collaboration in Le Monde A precarious border crosser, whose origins are constantly scrutinized and used against him. The comparison makes it clear that media authority does not arise solely from talent or attitude, but from historically developed affiliations – and that Ben Jelloun's writing remains more exposed, vulnerable, and isolated precisely for this reason.

With his literary text "Les amandiers sont morts de leurs blessures" about Rafah, Ben Jelloun once again crosses a line. The Israeli embassy officially intervenes. Le Monde and declares the text "more dangerous than a political article against the State of Israel." Here, his poetic voice is politically overcoded: The writer is read as a political actor whose words have geopolitical consequences – precisely because they strike a tone not of analysis, but rather of mourning.

Even within the editorial team, his position remains precarious. Colleagues react with open rejection or subtle hostility. Nicole Zand tells him bluntly: "We don't need you here." This aggression isn't just personal; it points to a competition for interpretive authority: Who gets to decide what happens next? Le Monde Speaking about the Arab world – and from what perspective? The attacks by other Maghrebi and Arab intellectuals are particularly bitter. They accuse him of incompetence, spread rumors of favoritism, or deny him the right to speak "for" the Arab world. Here, belonging is once again narrowed: what matters is not the text itself, but rather the presumed loyalty to national, religious, or personal networks.

Ben Jelloun describes, for example, the aggression of Rachid Boudjedra or a Tunisian intellectual who cannot bear the fact that a "Moroccan" is talking about Arabic literature in Le Monde writes. Here, his background is not marked as a qualification, but as a flaw. The portrayal reveals how representation in a leading Western medium is perceived as a symbolically scarce resource: his mere presence is felt as a threat, his voice as an illegitimate appropriation of a speaking position.

In Ben Jelloun's work, Rachid Boudjedra appears as a figure of open conflict, in which a rivalry for the authority to interpret and represent Arabic literature crystallizes. Boudjedra's aggressive outburst of anger after a fundamentally positive review makes it clear that his concern is less about criticism than about principle: he refuses to be read and legitimized by another Maghrebi—especially a Moroccan. For Ben Jelloun, this conflict becomes a symptom of a destructive competitive mindset in which solidarity is replaced by national, personal, and symbolic jealousy.

Kateb Yacine occupies a distinctly different position. He functions as a literary genealogy, a figure embodying a radical, linguistically and politically uncompromising tradition. Ben Jelloun's relationship to him is characterized by admiration, yet also by distance: Kateb represents a heroic, masculine-coded literature of rebellion, with which Ben Jelloun feels connected, without being able or willing to continue it. The identification remains ambivalent—Kateb is both origin and excess.

Abdelkebir Khatibi emerges as an intellectual ally with whom Ben Jelloun shares a theoretical sensibility. Khatibi embodies a postcolonial intellectual space that is neither confined to nationalist narrowness nor to French assimilation. His concepts of multilingualism, hybridity, and "double critique" appear as a counterpoint to the Parisian intellectual scene and as a quiet foundation for Ben Jelloun's own position between worlds.

Driss Chraïbi represents an earlier generation of Moroccan authors who paved the way into the French literary landscape. Ben Jelloun approaches him with respect, but without unwavering identification: Chraïbi's provocative style and his conflicted relationship with Morocco mark a historical stage that, for Ben Jelloun, is both a prerequisite and a limitation. The reference remains ambivalent—acknowledged, but not prescriptive.

Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine, finally, embodies the radicalism of the outsider. His avant-garde, eruptive writing acts as an extreme pole, which Ben Jelloun orients himself towards without following. Khaïr-Eddine represents a literary violence that rejects any form of institutionalization. In Ben Jelloun's perspective, this radicalism is admired, but at the same time can be read as the price of existential marginalization—as a consequence of an uncompromising position outside all established fields.

Pigiste au Monde Ben Jelloun paints a multifaceted, largely disillusioned picture of the French intellectual scene of the 1970s and 1980s. It appears as a dense, highly ritualized space in which symbolic capital—titles, signatures, proximity to institutions—plays a more decisive role than intellectual openness. Jelloun portrays this scene as highly socially regulated: who speaks, who speaks for whom, and who even becomes visible at all, follows implicit hierarchies that are rarely reflected upon but fiercely defended.

We learn that French intellectuals in the broader sense—essayists, academics, politically engaged writers—are strongly influenced by networks, rituals, and performative belonging. Ben Jelloun describes encounters in which universalism is invoked while simultaneously reproducing clear cultural hierarchies. This is particularly evident in reactions to politically sensitive topics: criticism is welcomed as long as it does not disrupt existing symbolic orders. Overall, the book presents less of an individual character study than a structural pattern: authors, intellectuals, and journalists appear as actors in a field organized by power, recognition, and exclusion. Ben Jelloun makes it clear that personal attitudes are always intertwined with institutional positions—and that those who see themselves as critical and progressive are especially sensitive when their authority to interpret is challenged.

Ultimately, the book reveals an intellectual scene that is only partially aware of its own power. It presents itself as a counterforce, a critical voice against the state and the economy, yet it itself reproduces exclusions—particularly towards voices from the postcolonial sphere. Ben Jelloun's account makes it clear that the problem is less overt hostility than a structural assumption: the scene remains fundamentally national, white, and republican, while "other" voices are tolerated but rarely recognized as equals.

At the same time, the book exposes the ambivalence between moral universalism and political partisanship. Many actors see themselves as bearers of Enlightenment values—human rights, anti-colonialism, solidarity—but react dismissively as soon as these principles challenge concrete political alliances or ideological certainties. The reactions to texts on Israel/Palestine, the Mecca Report, or Kabylia reveal a scene that demands criticism but tolerates it only when it comes from "legitimate" voices. Moral authority thus proves to be unequally distributed.

From all this, Ben Jelloun doesn't adopt a victim mentality, but rather arrives at a sobering realization: his position is structurally isolated. He belongs to several worlds simultaneously—and is fully recognized by none. It is precisely this isolation, however, that marks his intellectual integrity: he refuses to clearly identify with any particular camp and clings to the autonomy of writing, even at the cost of constant vulnerability. Caught between pressure from states, institutions, and cultural communities, Ben Jelloun asserts writing as an autonomous space. Pigiste au Monde This is a plea for literary journalism in the face of power.

Writer, poet

Even within the editorial staff, his position is viewed ambivalently. Particularly revealing is the scene in which Jacques Fauvet explicitly defines him not as a journalist, but rather as a "writer, poet," effectively barring him from a permanent position. This label is benevolent, yet limiting: Ben Jelloun is allowed to write as long as he is considered an exceptional literary figure, not as a fully integrated member of the journalistic apparatus. His cultural otherness is thus aestheticized and simultaneously institutionally neutralized. The portrayal demonstrates how recognition and exclusion are intertwined.

Ben Jelloun explicitly defines his literary writing not as a continuation of journalism by other means, but rather as its necessary counterpart: While journalism remains bound to facts, timeliness, and verifiability, literature allows it to go further where information reaches its limits—with experience, vulnerability, and moral truth. He insists that he in Le Monde Although he presents himself as a journalist, he always intervenes as a writer: with a poetic language that doesn't neutralize but exposes. Precisely for this reason, his texts are read as dangerous – they don't just inform, they affect. For him, literature becomes a space of condensation, in which political violence, exile, and belonging are not explained. They are made tangible, while journalism provides the social stage on which this voice first becomes audible.

In Pigiste au Monde Tahar Ben Jelloun does not address his own books systematically, but rather situationally, always embedded in specific professional or political contexts. This casual integration is particularly revealing because it makes his authorship visible not as a closed body of work, but as an ongoing process of negotiation.

Central is Harrouda (1973), his first novel, which was written in the context of his early work at Le Monde The book is published. It marks his entry into the literary public sphere and is understood in the text as a transgression of boundaries: formally experimental, thematically provocative, clearly outside the bounds of what was then expected of a "Maghrebi" author. The mention of it serves less to describe the content than to establish his position: Ben Jelloun presents himself early on as a writer who behaves not in a representative manner, but rather disruptively.

A key role is played La Plus Haute des solitudes (1977), his essayistic book on the affective and sexual isolation of North African migrant workers in France. This work appears in the book as an intersection between journalism, social research, and literature. Ben Jelloun describes the massive difficulties in finding a publisher, as well as the crucial support from Le MondeThe presentation makes it clear that this book crystallizes his dual authorial position: as an empirically working observer and as a poetically writing intellectual.

His poetic texts are also discussed several times, especially those that were first published in Le Monde These texts, such as "Les amandiers sont morts de leurs blessures," exemplify a poetics of condensation and indirect political discourse. Ben Jelloun demonstrates how poetic form is perceived as dangerous within journalism precisely because it defies easy categorization. His focus on these poems underscores his self-conception as a poet who transforms political reality rather than merely commenting upon it.

Finally, the book implicitly refers to other later novels and essays without analyzing them in detail. Crucially, it is less the individual title that matters than the repeated emphasis on a continuum: all these books emerge from the same experiential spaces—migration, violence, loneliness, power—that also shape his journalistic work. Pigiste au Monde This forms a metatext that makes visible the inner logic and ethical coherence of one's own work.

From Pigiste au Monde The image that emerges is of an author who consistently sees himself as a boundary-crosser: socially, culturally, and discursively. Ben Jelloun appears neither as a pure journalist nor as an autonomous literary figure, but rather as someone who productively intertwines both roles. His authorship takes shape in the in-between – between center and periphery, between institutional recognition and structural precarity. The text presents him as a figure who has access to spaces of power and interpretation without ever being fully absorbed by them.

At the same time, the author reveals himself as a morally stance-driven subject. Ben Jelloun does not write from a neutral perspective; he writes from a position of responsibility toward the marginalized: migrants, the disenfranchised, the politically persecuted. This stance is not moralistic, but rather grounded in his own biography. The book constructs an image of the author in which experience, empathy, and political awareness are inextricably linked. Writing thus becomes a form of ethical practice that embraces risks and consciously accepts conflict.

Despite friendships, networks and recognition in intellectual circles of Le Monde Ben Jelloun remains a prominent figure, a solitary actor. His position as an Arab-Muslim author in a leading Western media outlet makes him vulnerable—to state actors as well as colleagues and fellow countrymen. The book thus paints a picture of an author who only ever experiences belonging partially, and whose voice derives its sharpness precisely from this tension.

Ultimately, the image that emerges is of a self-reflective author who critically examines his own role. Ben Jelloun addresses the limits of memory, the ambivalences of journalistic power, and the temptations of symbolic capital. He does not present himself as a champion of truth, but rather as a writer grappling with doubt, who exposes errors, fears, and contradictions. It is precisely this controlled demythologization that stabilizes his authorial image: as someone who derives authority from reflection and linguistic precision.