Blogpost by Felix Hahn At the edge of the panels: How contemporary are Franco-Belgian comic classics in the shadow of anti-gypsyism?

Published on 19.05.2026

By the 1960s at the latest, comic albums featuring the imaginative adventures of Asterix, Tintin, or Spirou and Fantasio had become firmly embedded in everyday Western European culture—and had become virtually indispensable in the children’s bedrooms of that era. The famous comics of the Franco-Belgian tradition, a distinct art form originating in the French-speaking regions of Europe at the beginning of the twentieth century, continue to shape cultural memory to this day. Their enduring impact is evident not only in the continuation of numerous successful comic series, but also in their vibrant reception—for instance in the Parc Spirou, opened in southern France in 2018, or the still widely visited Parc Astérix near Paris. Yet behind the colourful surface of these popular comic worlds lies a complex cultural structure that extends far beyond their status as products of children’s entertainment. They function as carriers of social values and norms—a mirror of their time in which colonial, social, and cultural power structures are reflected. The visual representation of Roma people in particular, however, long remained in the shadows: not only within the panels themselves, but also within academic scholarship more broadly, as only more recent studies—such as the 2021 publication by the Research Centre on Antigypsyism—have made visible. The present article is intended as a synthesis and condensation of the existing scholarship on the representation of Roma in Franco-Belgian comics, drawing in particular on the work of Johannes Korff (2024), who has demonstrated that representations of Roma in popular media cannot be understood as a uniform phenomenon, but instead follow differing discursive logics depending on medium, genre, and cultural context (cf. Korff 2024, pp. 2–4). The underlying corpus of comics was introduced into scholarly discussion primarily by the two central researchers in this field, Johannes Korff (Korff 2024) and Jörg Ahrens (Ahrens 2021); this article follows their canon. At the same time, the article pursues a different perspective: less concerned with developing a fundamentally new analytical approach to antigypsyism and popular culture, it instead asks how representations of Sinti and Roma in the works under discussion ought to be evaluated from a contemporary perspective. Against the backdrop of their continued presence in children’s bedrooms, the focus thus shifts to their present-day relevance: are these comics still contemporary today? 

HUMOUR AS AN INSTRUMENT OF DOMINATION: CIVILISATIONAL NARRATIVES IN THE EARLY BANDES DESSINÉES 

For some time now, scholarship has recognised that humour—particularly in the early phases of famous Franco-Belgian comic series—served to reinforce existing social hierarchies. As Johannes Korff demonstrates, this humour is closely bound up with colonial civilisational narratives in which that which is marked as “uncivilised” becomes the object of pedagogical or paternalistic superiority (cf. Korff 2024, pp. 75–79). Hergé’s Tintin au Congo (Tintin in the Congo), published in 1931, can no longer be read through the lens of naïve childhood innocence. Rather, Hergé—like many other Western authors of the period, one might think for instance of the early Spirou strips by Rob-Vel or Franquin—portrayed the African population as backward, indolent, and at times almost animal-like. Even Tintin’s loyal fox terrier Snowy feels compelled to exclaim: “Come on, get to work, you lazybones!” (Hergé 1997, p. 22). In doing so, the work contributed substantially to consolidating Western notions of civilisation vis-à-vis the Belgian and French colonies, while simultaneously showing readers the supposed dependence of these “savages” upon the technological achievements of the West. 

Jörn Ahrens, one of the very few scholars alongside Johannes Korff to engage with the representation of Roma figures in Franco-Belgian comics, reads this new caravan as a symbol of “consistent civilisation” (konsequente Zivilisierung) —through which the Roma, so the implicit message, finally become “real human beings” (Ahrens 2021, p. 131). Whereas Jews in many depictions of the period were portrayed as materially affluent and manipulative—one might think, for example, of the caricature produced in 1940 by Spirou illustrator Jijé of a wealthy, hook-nosed Jew devising sinister Machiavellian schemes—Roma in the early years of Franco-Belgian comics appear as backward marginal figures in need of civilisation, seemingly dependent upon the assistance of white protagonists (Aman 2023, p. 861). 

THE AMBIVALENCE OF EMPATHY AFTER 1945: WHEN RESCUE ULTIMATELY STABILISES HIERARCHY 

In the post-war period, the representation of Roma in the Franco-Belgian comics scene changes noticeably—though not radically enough to entirely dispense with the “exotic appeal” of their literary figures. As Johannes Korff demonstrates, this phase is characterised less by rupture than by an ambivalent renegotiation, in which antigypsyist stereotypes are increasingly reflected upon, yet simultaneously continue to be reproduced (cf. Korff 2024, pp. 79–82). One contributing factor to this development surely lies in the emerging Roma civil rights movement in France and Belgium, which gradually altered social consciousness. Initially still uncoordinated and driven by individuals such as Matéo Maximoff, activism increasingly took organised form from the 1960s onward, for example through structures such as the Communauté Mondiale Gitane. Korff was the first to draw attention to this connection (2024, pp. 80f.). 

One of the first comic authors to venture into this renegotiation of the Roma figure was André Franquin. In his 1951 work Il y a un sorcier à Champignac (There Is a Sorcerer in Champignac; German title: Der Zauberer von Rummelsdorf / The Wizard of Rummelsdorf), he initially follows the familiar representational patterns known from Hergé: a Roma man in tattered clothing, living in a caravan, silent, mysterious, and marked by the respectable citizens of Rummelsdorf—a paradigmatic example of petty-bourgeois “civilisation”—as the target of rejection and prejudice within the village community (Franquin, p. 5ff.). When strange events begin occurring in the village—emaciated cows, blue-and-black spotted pigs—suspicion immediately falls upon the silent Romani man (ibid., pp. 7–21). Even Spirou and Fantasio, the titular heroes of the series, gradually adopt the village’s perspective and begin to distrust the stranger. Yet as the narrative unfolds, the supposed “sorcerer” proves innocent. It is not he, but rather the eccentric local count, who is responsible for the inexplicable occurrences (ibid., p. 27ff.). The story ultimately concludes with Spirou and Fantasio rescuing the wrongly accused man from the enraged villagers (ibid., p. 35ff.). 

As scholarship has emphasised (cf. especially Korff 2024, p. 87), Franquin, like Hergé, also attaches a clear natural determinant to Roma figures: they are those who live in nature and thereby distinguish themselves from the “orderly” civilised society represented here by the petty-bourgeois village of Rummelsdorf. At the same time, however, Franquin makes clear that it is not the Roma themselves who seek this separation; rather, it is the result of social attribution. The family is subjected to a process of social exclusion that leaves them with only a marginal existence as a possible space of life—always under the threat of fresh prejudices and accusations. 

Yet the rescue of the nameless Romani man by Spirou and Fantasio ultimately confirms the old order: the man (belonging to the minority) is grateful, the civilised remain the rescuers, and the social hierarchy remains firmly intact. This ambivalent structure—empathy coupled with the simultaneous stabilisation of social hierarchies—has repeatedly been highlighted in scholarship. Johannes Korff describes this constellation as characteristic of the post-war development of the bande dessinée, in which antigypsyist stereotypes are partially reflected upon and undermined, yet simultaneously persist in the form of visual and narrative routines (cf. Korff 2024, pp. 82–87; see also Ahrens 2021). 

HUMOUR AS MIRROR: ANCIENT IMAGES OF NOMADISM AND THE LOGIC OF THE WINK 

This use of humour, however, unfortunately remains exceptional within the Franco-Belgian comic world, meaning that Roma figures are otherwise seldom permitted more than a secondary role. They remain part of the scenery, destined to sprinkle the narrative with a touch of foreignness and mystique. At times they function as a red herring—or, more precisely, as a gypsy red herring, a term introduced into the scholarly discussion by Korff (2024, p. 86) —at other times as victims upon whom the moral greatness of the white hero may prove itself. Even where the post-war period reveals a more innovative perspective on prejudice and structural discrimination, the underlying social hierarchy remains fundamentally untouched. The Roma figure may be innocent—but must still be rescued. That the iconography of the ‚Gypsy‘ remains virtually identical across nearly all comics is hardly surprising; after all, comic artists draw upon a centuries-old visual repertoire that has long ossified into a cultural template (cf. among others Bogdal 2014). Discriminatory representation here has become literary routine, like a thoroughly rehearsed motif that reinforces existing hierarchies and continues to haunt children’s panels to this day as a Pathosformel. From this point onward, it remains a long road that the authors of the bande dessinée must travel before more differentiated representations emerge. Only with works such as Didier Comès’ Silence (1979), Smolderen and Marini’s Gypsy (1992), or Dillies and Bouchard’s Mélodie au crépuscule (2006) does a more complex and innovative image of the minority begin to take shape. In light of this new generation of comics, it would nevertheless scarcely be justified to banish the great Franco-Belgian classics and their cultural legacy entirely from children’s bedrooms. Despite the problematic aspects outlined above, these remain stories of courage, friendship, and curiosity—and for decades they have made generations laugh, marvel, and eagerly follow along. If readers engage consciously with the representations contained within them (perhaps with the aid of a disclaimer at the beginning of the album) and take them as an occasion to speak with their children about prejudice and the contemporary situation of the Roma minority, then these comics may perhaps achieve precisely what good literature has always done—or ought to do: not merely entertain, but also provoke reflection. 

For those wishing to engage more intensively with the visual dimensions of antigypsyism beyond this essay, I would particularly recommend the 2021 publication by the Research Centre on Antigypsyism in Heidelberg, as well as the writings of Korff and Ahrens.