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MOORMAN (Marissa J.): «Powerful Frequencies: Radio, State Power, and the Cold War in&#160;Angola, 1931-2002», Athens, Ohio University Press, 2019, 240 pages.Par Adeshina Afolayan, University of Ibadan (Nigeria)Powerful Frequencies is one of those rare studies that have focused on radio, which is arguably the most important mass medium on the African continent. In an introduction, six chapters and an epilogue, Moorman presents us with a full description of radio’s political contours throughout the struggles for independence (1931-1974) and the civil war (1975-2002), as well as since a multi-party democracy was instituted (in 1992). Radio listening practices also provide an important marker of Angolan citizenship today: as one attendee at a book event in 2016 told Moorman, “I am from the MPLA [the People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola]. We listened to ‘Angola Combatente’!” (p.&#160;64).Moorman has written a “regional history of decolonization, national liberation movements, people crossing borders, and white settler colonies that turned the cold war hot in southern Africa” (p.&#160;1). She gives us a vivid account of how broadcasting and listening in radio studios and Angolan homes alike became practices through which sub- and supra-national interests and communities found expression. During the late 1960s, clandestine broadcasts of the radio show “Angola Combatente” from Brazzaville showed that the independence struggle was being fought not only within Angola but also very much from outside it. The fight did not end with political independence, but when Angolan National Radio (the NRA, which was created after independence) rebroadcast news from the Nigerian press, the liberation struggle found new expression in critiques of US imperialism in Africa (p.&#160;139). When it also contradicted reports from South African radio (ibid.), the Angolan government supported the Namibian people’s struggle for independence (p.&#160;141), thus interfering with South Africa’s apartheid regime.Because of its constant attention to the interaction between domestic and international political actors and events, Powerful Frequencies is a highly original contribution to the scholarship of national histories in Africa. But it is more than that, as Moorman seeks from the outset to “decolonize” historio­graphy, and identifies its value at a contemporary global level. Her main guide through this process is Frantz Fanon, whom she quotes already at the beginning of the monograph, and whose spirit is present throughout the book. His quote speaks of the dialogic nature of lies, in that listening or not listening to Radio Algeria meant making a choice between the enemy’s lie and that of the people. Moorman reminds us that this choice reflects a particular “political alertness”, a “changed consciousness” (p.&#160;3). Fascinatingly, Moorman seizes this opportunity to reflect on contemporary American society and the role of social media in the 2016 US elections and the mid-term election campaigns in 2018 (p.&#160;4), thus providing a powerful illustration of how Africanist scholars can bring a new perspective to discussions about post-truth in the Global North.In colonial Angola, the manipulation of information broadcasting was described by the term psico, which Moorman translates as “psychological warfare”. All sides in the conflict engaged in psico, thereby allowing Moorman to study “the labor of sound”. During the liberation struggle, counterinsurgency came about through the creation of a more “African” sounding broadcast, “Voz de Angola”, which was aimed at convincing “Africans of Portuguese beneficence and commitment to economic development” (p.&#160;93). Guerrilla fighters also worked hard to communicate their messages and mobilize support from their audiences. Psico policies persisted after independence. Fully in line with Nyamnjoh’s theorising about African journalists juggling between political and cultural citizenship (but without engaging with his theories), Moorman shows how journalists (and radio technicians) manoeuvred between self-censorship and party directives during the civil war (p.&#160;153). Unita (National Union for the Total Independence of Angola) radio journalists would be reporting from particular regions, for example, even if they were not there, but using news from soldiers. In the fashion of a “true lie”, announcers created a “different, on-the-site sound” (p.&#160;152). On the national radio station (RNA), Unita’s adversaries, the MPLA, skilfully denounced these fabrications, classifying them as “false reports” (p.&#160;153).Moorman is sensitive to the agency of audiences, and consistently shows how listeners were smarter than the radio broadcasters imagined. Probably the best example of this is clandestine listening during the independence struggle: in Luanda’s musseques (informal neighbourhoods), one radio was located in the entrance and tuned to a Luanda broadcast, while a second radio device was set up at the back of the home to enable people to listen to the guerrilla radio broadcasts being transmitted from Brazzaville (p.&#160;60). Moorman argues that listeners “disentangled tunes from ideology” (p.&#160;91). Similar practices of hidden listening continued during the civil war (p.&#160;149); then, too, listeners were not just echo chambers: they recognized propaganda when they heard it.Moorman is clear about the research process, and demystifies what it means to prepare an archival and oral history of radio politics in central Africa. She visited archives in Angola, especially the archives of the National Angolan Radio (RNA) and the International and State Defence Police (Pide) and various ministries. In Lisbon, she consulted Portuguese radio archives, military historical archives and various government-related archives, unearthing a wide variety of documents, including police reports, radio transcripts, listeners’ letters and policy documents, and also using novels and contemporary art. All this was complemented by oral histories (in the form of interviews).The topic raises many methodological challenges for the historian: how can historical research on radio be carried out when paper-based archives have hardly preserved any audio recordings, when political movements have destroyed original recordings and transcripts, when researchers are not allowed access to particular archives, and when not many people have clear memories of key episodes in the political past, or do not seem to be too willing to talk? After all, up to now, Angola’s political history has remained a contentious subject. Moorman’s efforts to describe Ricardo Branco’s role in Angola’s soundscapes are most fascinating. She is not sure whether he really existed. Although three former journalists of Radio Vorgan (the Unita radio station) mentioned him, the archives offer no confirmation. What can be written about a person who is “shrouded in mystery” (p.&#160;150)? One is left to write a “possible history”. Moorman’s paragraphs on Branco include the words “perhaps”, “may” and “would” more often than one would expect in a history book.For a reader with minimal knowledge of Angolan politics, the material can sometimes be daunting, as sides and alliances seem to change easily, and various political actors involve radio differently when they change position, leading to a very complex and dynamic media ecology. However, Moorman has succeeded in writing a story full of anecdotes, political twists, and deep insights into Angolans’ participation in the struggle of decolonization.In her introduction, she admits that she feared that the structure of the book might be perceived as an “uneven cadence” (p.&#160;8), as a consequence of her interest “in the choppy, dissonant story of how Angola sounded” (p.&#160;8) throughout its fraught history. As such, its rhythm is consistent with recent arguments about “nervousness” in African history studies –&#160;Moorman often dialogues with Hunt’s recent monograph on colonial Congo’s nervous governance, for example. One might argue that the confusion and chaos of the book are an accurate reflection of Angola’s turbulent politics.As Moorman writes in her epilogue, contemporary use of social media platforms needs to be read as part of a long history of political movements in the country. Here, the question of the “true lie” and its bearings on contemporary society in Angola, but also very much in the Global North, is restated. Even though the themes of mobilization and contestation are not addressed theoretically, Moorman does have a conceptual interest in the ways media manage to capture people’s minds and bodies for political ends –&#160;whether they be propaganda for those in power or for those who oppose them.Moorman has given us a book with a wealth of meaningful layers, one we will be able to reflect on at length. It should be read by everyone who is interested in global history or political representation, the media and conflict.BONIN Hubert (dir.) «Partir dans les outre-mers. De&#160;l’empire colonial à nos jours (xixe-xxie&#160;siècle)», Paris, Les Indes savantes, 2020, 232 pages.Par Katrien Pype KU Leuven UniversityEn présentant les textes préparés pour une journée d’étude, cet ouvrage collectif attire l’attention sur une historiographie active pratiquée en marge des grands chantiers contemporains qui sont surtout concentrés sur les migrations Nord-Sud, anciennes et actuelles. Il réunit des analyses portant sur le départ de Français (et d’autres Européens) vers les colonies, puis vers les pays issus des indépendances, en montrant que le sujet est loin d’être épuisé car il dévoile la grande variété des conditions et des motivations des «&#160;partants&#160;», pas tous colons d’ailleurs, loin s’en faut. Cette ouverture est obtenue grâce à la juxtaposition d’objets de tailles et de contours différents qui forment finalement un ensemble cohérent et plein d’intérêt.L’équipe réunie ici n’entend pas démontrer l’existence d’un principe unique des départs. L’introduction du livre liste la variété des causes de ceux-ci&#160;: elle en dénombre une dizaine que 14&#160;chapitres se chargent d’illustrer. Partir très loin, c’est le projet des explorateurs. Partir pour commander, c’est à la fois l’entreprise d’Alexandre Varenne, homme de gauche partant occuper le poste de gouverneur de l’Indochine en 1925 (un des rares chapitres hors Afrique) et des élèves des dernières promotions de l’Enfom (École nationale de la France d’outre-mer). Partir pour fuir (la misère de l’Europe du Sud ou l’annexion de l’Alsace-Moselle). Partir pour se dépayser ou par attrait de l’exotisme (étonnants portraits de jeunes femmes allemandes au Tanganyika). Partir sous la contrainte est le thème de trois chapitres qui rappellent que le départ aux colonies a été pour beaucoup une épreuve imposée (les appelés de la guerre d’Algérie), voire horrible (départ au bagne, à Biribi) et en tout cas dépourvue du sentiment de supériorité du colonisateur. Expériences à rapprocher du «&#160;partir pour faire le bien&#160;» propre, entre autres, aux religieux, dont la description des rituels de départ s’apparente, au xixe&#160;siècle, à l’acceptation du martyre. Enfin, on part aussi, et probablement le plus souvent, pour gagner (mieux) sa vie et même dans l’espoir de faire fortune, ainsi que le montrent les chapitres consacrés aux carrières et aux entreprises de colons. Toutefois, les dimensions de l’intérêt financier et de l’esprit de conquête (pour ne pas dire de domination) qui alimente la propagande coloniale (le «&#160;génie&#160;» français), et que dénonce l’anticolonialisme, ne sont ici que des éléments d’un ensemble plus complexe offert à la compréhension des migrations Nord-Sud.BRACHET (Julien) et SCHEELE (Judith), «The Value of Disorder: Autonomy, Prosperity, and Plunder in the Chadian Sahara», Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2019, 356 pages.Par Patrick Quantin, Centre Émile DurkheimThis ethnographically and theoretically rich book explores social and moral life in Faya-Largeau, an oasis that is mainly inhabited by nomadic groups who are known collectively as “Tubu”, and is now the capital of the Chadian Sahara region of Borkou. Faya was not one of the main centres of pre-colonial Trans-Saharan trade, and there is little historical information about it before the French colonial government built a military garrison there and it became a pivotal city in the rebellions against the central government after decolonization. The book analyses Faya from various angles (including history, trade and social interactions), and skilfully combines a variety of historical documents (pre-colonial writings from Arabic and European sources, colonial documents and ethnographies) with fresh ethnographic data, touching upon a variety of current and engaging issues. The book’s main purpose is to offer a critical discussion of certain of the concepts used to describe Faya and the nomadic Tubu –&#160;the area is generally described as an isolated area inhabited by anarchic and violent people&#160;– and to show how the vocabulary of western social science is unsuitable for describing the local moral world, therefore aiming to “develop a conceptual vocabulary that makes it possible to describe Tubu sociality in positive rather than negative terms” (p.&#160;33). In so doing, the book effectively demonstrates the limitations of many of the assumptions about Saharan societies and engages fruitfully with the rich literature on them.The book is made up of eight chapters: it begins with an extensive introduction to the context, the authors’ positionality in the field, their methodology and sources and the structure of the book. Chapter&#160;1 analyses Faya’s pre-colonial and colonial history, and emphasises the importance of its interactions with external powers such the Sanusiyya Sufi brotherhood, the Ottoman Empire and France, in contrast to pre-colonial and colonial accounts that describe the oasis as a place located outside history. Chapter&#160;2 moves on to Faya’s post-colonial history, which has been marked by the conflicts that have afflicted Chad since independence. This chapter offers a critical analysis of the various labels and divisions that emerged during the war, accentuating the fact that Faya’s importance as a city lies in the economic and social dynamics that were triggered by the conflicts. Chapters&#160;3 and 4 focus on local modes of production, the former on agriculture and the latter on trade. They explore concepts such as property, status and labour (chapter&#160;3), and reciprocity and exchanges (chapter&#160;4), criticising what the authors define as the “classic picture of Saharan labour relations and status groups” (p.&#160;43). The chapter emphasises the need to go “beyond arguments about ‘slavery’ (or even ‘post-slavery’)” and therefore “to rethink relations of production in northern Chad more generally, taking into account notions of property and possession, political dominance, access to vital resources and the status of collective prerogatives and rights –&#160;in other terms, the social forms of production in both their material and their ideological aspects” (p.&#160;135). In Faya, farming dates does not require heavy labour and the Tubu seem well able to control economic exchanges without a strong local class of traders. Hence, Brachet and Scheele describe Faya as a “gathering economy, where taxes and other emoluments are ‘harvested’ just like dates and natron”, which locally creates a “world of glory, of spectacular villainy coupled with equally spectacular generosity, producing short-lived heroes, where personal autonomy matters more than the increase of wealth or even of social relations” (p.&#160;215). This “world of glory” is based on rules that differ from the rational calculus of the “world of reciprocity”, and this leads us to the last two chapters, which analyse the moral dimension of social life in Faya. Chapter&#160;5 describes the lack of “internal mechanisms of stabilisation” in an economic system where the “emphasis [is] not on reciprocity but rather on one-sided acquisition (and redistribution) of wealth, on the glory of both getting things for free and giving with no apparent expectations of any kind of return” (p.&#160;255). Chapter&#160;6 explores the political consequences of this moral world, criticising the analytically useless stereotype of “Tubu anarchy”, which conflates a lack of political institutions with the absence of social order. The chapter shows that a lack of reciprocity does not mean isolation, as interactions with external actors have traditionally played a crucial role in Faya, and demonstrates that “disorder itself has its own choreography and needs to be learned, and there are strong ideas about what makes a ‘good person’ or, rather, a ‘good Tubu’” (p.&#160;265). The conclusion summarises the main arguments of the book, and emphasises the need to explain the local social orders through a focus on local positive values –&#160;such as personal autonomy or generosity&#160;– rather than on a presumed lack of order, and on Faya’s connection with the external world rather than on its apparent lack of history.Among the book’s strengths is a powerful criticism of concepts such as reciprocity in economics or stability in politics, which are often assumed to be inherently virtuous in anthropology because of a “functionalist” bias. The book exposes certain limitations of anthropology when it comes to dealing with local ideas of labour, property or exchanges in a context in which personal autonomy and disorder are praised as positive values. It therefore criticises a certain bias in the way both colonial officials and scholars have interpreted social dynamics in Saharan societies. In particular, it refutes the idea that Sahara is an empty place lying outside history, and offers a convincing alternative to “post-slavery” in chapter&#160;3, in which it accounts for a variety of complex dynamics between the two main Tuba sub-groups in Faya, the Anakazza and the Kamaya. These positions build on Ghislaine Lydon’s recent criticism of the idea of a “Saharan divide” between Northern and sub-Saharan Africa, and on Janet Roitman and Marielle Debos’s work on the functioning of state institutions in the Lake Chad area. The book brings these approaches together into a broader theoretical framework, which it then enriches it with a strong ethnography that combines various sources and points of view thanks to the different social networks built by the two authors during their fieldwork. The authors have also sought to give value to the knowledge produced by Chadian scholars in local publications and PhD theses, although these sources are fairly sporadic on Chadian Sahara. Considering the similarities between Northern Chad and Southern Libya and the geopolitical significance of the area, this reader would have loved to find out more about the connections between the two sides of the border, but this was not the focus of this very important and engaging research, which provides up-to-date data and an innovative lens though which to analyse social interactions in an area that deserves more attention from scholars in the coming years.REY Jeanne, «Migration africaine et&#160;pentecôtisme en Suisse&#160;: dispositifs rituels, pouvoirs, mobilités», Paris, Karthala, 2019, 276 pages.Par Valerio Colosio, Social Sciences University of AnkaraTiré d’une thèse en anthropologie et en sociologie soutenue en 2013 à l’Institut de hautes études internationales et du développement de Genève, ce livre vient compléter les différentes recherches engagées ces vingt dernières années sur le pentecôtisme et les migrations africaines en Europe. Il est fondé sur une enquête de terrain menée dans plusieurs villes suisses, mais aussi au Ghana, à Accra et à Tema, afin de consolider l’analyse des dynamiques transnationales par une enquête multi-située. Variant les échelles, de la description des trajectoires individuelles à la rhétorique du combat spirituel étendue à la nation tout entière, la perspective de recherche engagée vise à saisir la contribution des pratiques rituelles au «&#160;processus de transformation du sujet pentecôtiste&#160;» (p.&#160;104). L’étude est ainsi placée sous l’influence théorique de Michel Foucault (dispositif, pratiques divisantes, subjectivation) mais aussi de Pierre Bourdieu, pour ce qui est de l’analyse des logiques concurrentielles et des stratégies de distinction au sein du «&#160;champ&#160;» des Églises et des prédicateurs pentecôtistes.Rapidement introduit en sept pages, l’ouvrage est constitué de six chapitres. Le premier chapitre –&#160;«&#160;Espaces pentecôtistes de la migration africaine&#160;»&#160;– est consacré à une mise en perspective sociohistorique de la présence des Églises pentecôtistes issues de l’immigration africaine en Suisse. Les processus décrits (premier groupe de chrétiens africains créé à Genève en&#160;1982, centralité des migrations congolaises, évolution sociale des migrations, transnationalisation des pentecôtismes africains) font écho aux différents travaux menés par ailleurs, dans d’autres contextes européens, même si l’auteure estime que «&#160;les identifications ethniques et nationales jouent un moindre rôle dans la composition des Églises africaines dans les villes suisses en comparaison avec de grands centres urbains tels que Londres, Paris ou Amsterdam&#160;» (p.&#160;29-30). Ce chapitre liminaire permet également à l’auteure d’apporter des précisions sur les trois principaux espaces de sa recherche&#160;: l’Église des nations, fondée à Genève par un pasteur indien, est qualifiée de «&#160;cosmopolite&#160;» dans la mesure où s’y côtoient des migrants africains et des expatriés employés par des organisations internationales&#160;; les Églises francophones membres de la Communauté des Églises africaines en Suisse (CEAS) et quelques autres Églises avec lesquelles elles entretiennent des liens étroits sont principalement fréquentées par des migrants qui font l’expérience du déclassement&#160;; enfin, des Églises fondées par des pasteurs ghanéens en Suisse, telles la Lighthouse Chapel International et la New International Church. Cet ensemble permet à l’auteure de faire «&#160;des ponts&#160;» entre différents espaces cultuels et migratoires, même si le jeu des écarts perd progressivement en nuance dans le reste de l’ouvrage au profit d’une analyse qui n’est pas toujours circonstanciée.Le deuxième chapitre –&#160;intitulé «&#160;De la conversion à l’intercession&#160;: itinéraires rituels&#160;»&#160;– est le plus long (65&#160;pages). Il engage directement la perspective de recherche annoncée. Les liens entre pratiques pentecôtistes et migrations sont abordés sous la forme d’un itinéraire générique composé en quatre mouvements&#160;: «&#160;“franchir le seuil” (la conversion), “­quitter l’infortune” (la délivrance, guérison ou res-tauration), “entrer dans le combat” (le baptême du Saint-Esprit) et “construire l’autorité” (l’onction)&#160;» (p.&#160;55). Cet itinéraire n’est pas conçu «&#160;comme une succession linéaire&#160;» prévient l’auteure, même si l’onction est présentée, plus loin dans l’ouvrage, comme «&#160;le stade ultime de l’accomplissement de soi pentecôtiste&#160;» (p.&#160;165). Les trois premiers mouvements sont décrits successivement, à l’appui de trajectoires individuelles. La conversion –&#160;les discours, les récits et les pratiques qui s’y rapportent&#160;– constitue moins un «&#160;rite de passage&#160;» qu’une «&#160;socialisation graduelle&#160;» qui qualifie le sujet pentecôtiste en le distinguant des non-convertis. Elle est le premier mouvement «&#160;d’un processus de transformation&#160;» consolidé par des pratiques à visée thérapeutique. Ces pratiques, dont l’auteur explique en quoi elles ne sont pas à confondre (guérison, délivrance, restauration), constituent le deuxième mouvement. Elles varient selon les espaces cultuels dans lesquels s’inscrivent les trajectoires des individus et sont soutenues par un arsenal de techniques (imposition des mains), de matérialités (huile, tissu) et de prescriptions rituelles (jeûne, prière, lecture de la Bible) qui visent à combattre l’infortune et à donner sens au malheur. L’auteure revient à ce sujet sur l’omniprésence du discours biomédical, disqualifié et impuissant mais néanmoins nécessaire pour valider la réalité du trouble et accréditer le «&#160;caractère miraculeux&#160;» de la guérison ou de la délivrance (p.&#160;81). La persistance de l’infortune se trouve fréquemment insérée dans la trame narrative du «&#160;combat spirituel&#160;», qui est présenté comme le troisième mouvement de ce processus de transformation des conduites et du «&#160;soi pentecôtiste&#160;». Analysé comme une «&#160;pratique divisante&#160;» (Foucault) qui «&#160;[défait] le sujet pour mieux le reconstituer&#160;» (p.&#160;101), le combat spirituel cumule les échelles, de la thérapie individuelle à la politisation des questions morales et à la conquête des nations. Il offre ainsi «&#160;un espace pour l’énonciation de revendications et de critiques d’ordre politique&#160;» et engage les «&#160;combattants&#160;» à conquérir «&#160;la nation païenne ou la ville décadente&#160;» (p.&#160;103).Intitulé «&#160;Chronotopes et migration&#160;», le troisième chapitre détaille la variation d’échelles liée à la dynamique du combat spirituel et les différents espaces collectifs dans lesquels ce combat se déploie. L’auteure convoque principalement d’autres travaux traitant des «&#160;esprits territoriaux&#160;», du spiritual mapping et de l’inversion symbolique des rapports de domination entre les migrants et leur société d’accueil, afin de définir un rapport spécifiquement pente­côtiste aux territoires. Le quatrième chapitre est consacré, de manière différée, au dernier mouvement du processus de transformation de soi annoncé au chapitre deux&#160;: «&#160;l’onction&#160;» ou comment «&#160;construire l’autorité&#160;». Présentée comme «&#160;l’ultime étape de l’itinéraire rituel dans lequel s’engage le converti pentecôtiste&#160;» (p.&#160;145), l’onction devient, dans la suite de l’ouvrage, un maître-mot. Le rappel historique sur les acceptions du terme et l’évolution des pratiques qui lui sont associées –&#160;de l’action rituelle (enduire d’huile) à la «&#160;substance&#160;» qui confère une «&#160;puissance spirituelle&#160;» à celui ou à celle (plus souvent à celui) qui la détient&#160;– est intéressant. L’auteure procède par ailleurs à un «&#160;inventaire des propriétés&#160;» de cette substance (sa transférabilité notamment) et donne quelques indications sur la manière dont elle peut être figurée (halo de lumière). Mais l’onction devient parfois un mot-écran qui contourne, tout en la facilitant, l’analyse du pouvoir et de l’autorité charismatique. La reprise de ce «&#160;concept-clé&#160;» (p.&#160;151), que certains courants néo-pentecôtistes et pentecôtistes charismatiques ont imposé dans les années 1990, tend en quelque sorte à substantialiser la description des dynamiques schismatiques et concurrentielles, l’analyse des stratégies de filiation spirituelle et de distinction, les logiques d’accumulation et de dénonciation du faux (le chapitre&#160;5 est précisément consacré à la dénonciation des faux prophètes et aux luttes dans le ministère).Ainsi, il pourrait être opposé, à cette manière de concevoir l’onction et de l’ana­-lyser, deux principales objections. La première est que l’onction est présentée comme le «&#160;stade ultime de l’accomplissement pentecôtiste&#160;» alors que la plupart des convertis savent qu’ils en sont dépourvus et qu’ils n’aspirent qu’à la recevoir dès leurs premiers pas au sein de ces espaces cultuels, donc pas à la posséder, ce que l’auteure n’ignore d’ailleurs pas en affirmant que «&#160;l’onction introduit une dissymétrie fondamentale qui est au fondement de l’autorité&#160;» (p.&#160;165). L’accomplissement du soi pentecôtiste ne vaudrait-il finalement que si le converti devient prédicateur et qu’il peut distribuer l’onction, la transférer et en faire commerce&#160;? La deuxième objection concerne la définition de l’onction comme «&#160;capital symbolique spécifique à ce champ&#160;» (p.&#160;177). Sauf à postuler son existence, l’onction n’est-elle pas plutôt la justification religieuse d’un capital inégalement distribué&#160;? Dès lors, la question reste ouverte&#160;: de quoi ce capital symbolique spécifique est-il constitué&#160;? Popularisé par des prédicateurs influents comme Benny Hinn dans les années 1990, il ne fait aucun doute que l’onction désigne un mode d’expérimentation de la présence divine spécifique à certains courants pentecôtistes. L’auteure tente de décoder les enjeux de cette catégorie religieuse en mobilisant à l’arrière-plan les concepts sociologiques qui permettent de décrire ce qu’elle sous-tend&#160;: stratégie d’accumulation, logique de distinction, processus de légitimation et reconfiguration des relations de pouvoir. Mais en reprenant cette catégorie religieuse, elle tend à substantialiser les luttes de pouvoir et de légitimation qui configurent de manière spécifique et différenciée les relations de l’individu au collectif au sein des espaces parcourus.Enfin, le chapitre&#160;6, intitulé «&#160;Des dispositifs rituels aux schèmes migratoires&#160;», permet à l’auteure de se ressaisir de son questionnement sur les affinités entre pratiques pentecôtistes et mobilités migratoires. La capacité des Églises pentecôtistes à mobiliser les individus et à les accompagner dans l’accomplissement de leur trajectoire et de leurs aspirations, en inscrivant «&#160;leur histoire personnelle dans les trames narratives offertes par les dispositifs rituels&#160;» (p.&#160;207), en fait des «&#160;acteurs importants des processus migratoires&#160;» (p.&#160;208). L’obtention d’un visa ou d’un titre de séjour fait partie des préoccupations centrales des migrants et est prise en charge de différentes manières (matériellement, rituellement, symboliquement) par les prédicateurs et les Églises qui contribuent à ces processus de mobilité. La courte conclusion revient sur le «&#160;commerce de l’onction&#160;» (p.&#160;249), une formulation empruntée à André Mary qui aurait sans doute gagné à faire l’objet d’une reprise plus précoce (cette formulation est employée pour la première fois à la fin du chapitre&#160;6) afin de mettre en perspective l’analyse et d’aider à penser les dynamiques rituelles, les enjeux de pouvoir et aussi l’économie spécifique de ces Églises, une dimension qui n’est jamais directement abordée dans l’ouvrage.Ce livre constitue assurément une intéressante synthèse sur le pentecôtisme et les migrations africaines en Suisse. On peut regretter que l’auteure n’explicite à aucun moment les conditions d’accès au terrain (pas même une note bas de page sur ce point), qu’elle engage une réflexion sur les dispositifs rituels sans jamais traiter le rituel «&#160;en lui-même et pour lui-même&#160;», que les espaces cultuels dans lesquels elle a mené sa recherche ethnographique ne sont pas suffisamment caractérisés et que la reformulation des catégories religieuses n’est pas complètement achevée (onction), ou même que les lectures engagées pour l’écriture de la thèse (2013) n’ont pas été actualisées (peu de références après 2010). Mais ces regrets n’altèrent pas le plaisir de la lecture. Ce livre, utile pour qui s’intéresse aux migrations et aux pentecôtismes africains en Europe, vient enrichir nos connaissances et alimenter le débat.ADÉÈKÓ Adélékè, «Arts of Being Yorùbá: Divination, Allegory, Tragedy, Proverbs, Panegyric», Bloomington/Indianapolis, Indiana University Press, 2017, 226&#160;pages.Par Damien Mottier, Université Paris NanterreOne of the most intellectually exciting discourses in today’s global world is the oscillation from cosmopolitanism to nationalism. Nationalism seems to have taken the upper hand, as the political orientations of most nation-states, from the United States of America to Brazil, and from South Africa to Hungary, have become decidedly nationalist. Nationalism has also brought in its wake not only a significant reflection on the ontological question of who we are, but also an ethical challenge of how we ought to relate to strangers, those who are not part of “us”. Thus, when the borders of advanced societies close against the hordes of refugees from Asia and Africa, we see the brutal reality of a nationalist consensus that defines people in terms of races and ethnos. However, in the clash between being a citizen of the world and being a citizen of a nation-state, what is often lost in the scuffle is the idea of the local.The local is not just a silent concept or a variable that ebbs and flows according to global or national dynamics, however: on the contrary, it always finds its ways into the processes that determine what is global or national, especially when it comes to characterizing the cultural under­standing of a people. It is in this sense that Yorùbá cultural beingness becomes a crucial consideration in the mapping of the global processes that celebrate cosmopolitan dynamics. And it is precisely in this context that Adélékè Adéèkó’s Arts of Being Yorùbá derives its significance and signifi­cation as an iteration of what it means to be Yorùbá in the world today. The Yorùbá of Southwestern Nigeria are one of the most transnational of all the ethnic groups that are flourishing in the world today. They are spread across not only Southwestern Nigeria but also the African diaspora –&#160;Haiti, Trinidad and Tobago, the Caribbean, Brazil and Cuba. Their diasporic reach derives from their mythical origin, which refers to a primeval rooster spreading sand over a primeval sea to show how far the Yorùbá cultural influence will reach; and yet, in the context of a consolidated global cultural supermarket that seeks to transform the entire world into the image of America, the Yorùbá’s local understanding of their sense of self-constitution, self-understanding and self-presentation must integrate itself solidly into a world that seeks to be cosmopolitan, but really is not.The Yorùbá understanding of culture as àsà –&#160;or critical selection&#160;– enables a critical, perpetuating dynamic that stretches the Yorùbá’s understanding of their cultural beingness from the past to the future. Arts of Being Yorùbá complicates this under­standing of àsà by examining elements of the Yorùbá culture that make it possible to merge the old and the new. This is what the subtitle of Adéèkó’s book is a nod towards –&#160;divination, panegyric, proverb, as well as naming, book launch and photography. For Adéèkó, the signification of Yorùbá cultural beingness in the world transcends the territorial locatedness of the Yorùbá themselves on the continent and in the diaspora. On the contrary, being Yorùbá is demonstrated by the texts, artifacts, gestures, values and norms that those who self-identify as Yorùbá consider to be critical for their identification. For Adéèkó, “being Yorùbá entails embedding elements of the old (or things presented as such), many times imperceptibly, in motions and gestures mostly of recent, diverse provenance, fit for addressing the present” (p.&#160;xiv). The book’s title is strategic: it pays critical attention to being Yorùbá as an art, as a framework of cultural affirmation that is decidedly plastic rather than a rigid conglomeration of traditions that remains fixed over time. As an art, cultural beingness adumbrates “instituted selections and combinations held together strategically to facilitate pleasing worldly intercourse within and among self-identifying social formations” (p.&#160;xv).The six chapters of the book, including the conclusion, eloquently and rigorously push this understanding of cultural affirmation. Three chapters will suffice to illustrate Adéèkó’s cogent arguments about the embedded plasticity of Yorùbá culture. In chapter one –&#160;“‘Writing’ and ‘Reference’ in Ifá Divination Chants”&#160;– Adéèkó makes the Ifá divination system a culturally durable inscription that is highly significant in Yorùbá “culture-making and culture-sustaining” dynamics. This is firmly enabled in the critical commentary space that links the inscription sign system and the storytelling that follows. When commenting on Ifá graphemes (or odù), the babaláwo generates comments and narratives that create the possibility of adapting past practices to be the antecedent of new developments in the present. Thus, while conditions change in the present, the Ifá inscription system enables clients to retain their Yorùbáness through its elastic capacity to adapt to future events. Chapter three –&#160;“Reading, Writing and Epistemic Instability in Fágúnwà’s Novels”&#160;– speaks not to the stable notation system that characterizes the Ifá divinatory system, but rather to an allegorization of “intellectual instabilities” (p.&#160;xvii) in a Yoruba society that is seeking to fathom new developments. Essentially, Fágúnwà’s novels bring to light the epistemic disjuncture between an older generation and its cultural assurances and a younger scribal generation that challenges these assurances and looks forward to new senses of being in the world. Thus, “the parameters of knowing and being” (p.&#160;62) are fundamentally in a state of disruption between the older and younger generations. For Adéèkó, the trajectory of òlàjú (enlightenment) delineates a dynamic of continuity and discontinuity mediated by the need to operate in worlds marked by uncertainty –&#160;“a gradually expiring present and an unfolding future” (p.&#160;xvii). In Fágúnwà’s novels, the older protagonists are willing to embark on dangerous expeditions for the sake of a form of enlightenment that brings newness, but are not willing to forsake antecedents (p.&#160;62). They thus became the source of inscriptions that permit commentaries. In chapter six of Arts of Being Yorùbá –&#160;“Photography and Panegyric in Contemporary Yorùbá Culture”&#160;– Adéèkó outlines a contemporary cultural practice that coalesces around celebrity as depicted in magazines. In his view, the photographic panegyric remodels the traditional one, constituting an elastic art form that defines Yorùbá beingness. The Yorùbá panegyric, in other words, is basically open to newness and multiple iterations, and it is this capacity for improvisation that allows it to live on as a Yoruba art form –&#160;“a system of ‘inscribing’ praise and eminence” (p.&#160;162)&#160;– in the contemporary form of magazines that pay tribute to eminence, and are distributed beyond Yorùbáland.Adéèkó’s characterization of Yorùbá self-understanding turns the idea of indigeneity on its head. Being indigenous has become a weapon used by traditionalists and neo-traditionalists to ground their fundamentalist claims to cultural authenticity and essentialism. Being Yorùbá, for Adéèkó, stands contrary to the allures of cultural authenticity, because no one can be regarded as being essentially Yorùbá at all times; rather, being Yorùbá resides in the commentaries made on and about stable cultural inscriptions.The shape-shifting understanding of being Yorùbá that Adéèkó projects in this book more broadly begs the philosophical question of what it means to be anything, and conflates the critical differences bet­ween being and becoming. Yorùbá cultural uniqueness becomes gerundival, falling right through the cracks between what it means to be and to become. Being Yorùbá in the world today also has a great deal to do with a political struggle for rights that requires a coherent, and even essentialized, sense of belonging. This is even more the case in a globalized world that hinges on cultural negotiations in order to achieve a sense of a cultural self. In this context, it becomes strategically significant for Yorùbá across the globe to essentialize themselves in order to gain a sense of who they are. To all intents and purposes, the arts of becoming Yorùbá counterbalance our deepest assurances about the Yorùbá’s cultural understanding of themselves.