The last day of September and after more than a year of no Paris bulletins why do I decide that I will write one? Because it feels important to tell a different story from the hate-filled ones that are crowding out the airwaves and the print media. Because however small and insignificant in the grander scheme of things, what I have to tell is important, celebrating growth of a healthier kind.
On Saturday 28 September in the cour du Maroc where we serve breakfast to hundreds of refugees, asylum-seekers and migrants, we held one of our seasonal fêtes. This one had as its title in French ‘Fête des Vents Porteurs’. Since there is no obvious English translation for ‘les vents porteurs’ it was decided to go with ‘Rise up with the wind’. As it happened the title was appropriate: there was a good breeze which kept the clouds moving on and gave life and energy to our flag and later in the morning to the ‘manches à air’- windsocks - painted on fabric, assembled at one of the many creative workshop tables around the cour, then stuck high up on the fence where they still are, billowing about in the sunshine and rain.
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| Our new flag - signature red teapot just visible |
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| raising one of the wind socks |
Behind that high wire fence stands a recently installed industrial container, still not plumbed in and still without electricity but both promised by the mairie. After three long years of hauling hot water from one friendly café or another we shall finally have the means to heat and wash in situ, to store our provisions and the gifts which well-wishers bring.
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| mixing the pancakes |
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| recording travels and encounters |
There is a point of view that says we are colluding with the authorities by setting up in a fixed cabin as if to become a permanent feature of the neighbourhood. It is however quite possible to accept the help that we have been lobbying for, while still working energetically towards the underlying objective – to play a part in bringing about a more humane, more intelligent global response to the problem of the thousands (soon to be millions) of dispossessed and exiled who arrive at the borders of wealthy countries.
As well as getting unwanted publicity about the riots, teargas and grenades, Paris has recently featured in the news as the ‘dirty city of Europe’. It is true that our area – but by no means all areas of the city – struggle to keep the pavements clear of rubbish. We do not have a problem with litter at the breakfasts though. These days we have moved over to using paper cups – more expensive and far from perfect ecologically-speaking since they are plastic-coated on the inside, but better than the plastic ones all the same. We encourage the migrants to keep their cups and reuse them for fill-ups and we provide clearly marked bins for them to throw them into. There’s not a lot to tidy up once we stop at the end of the morning’s service.
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| Speaking a poem |
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| a refugee's painted record of the breakfasts |
Continuing this theme, on Sunday afternoon I and eight other people, went out on metro line 7 to Aubervilliers to the community theatre.
Underpinning the play we saw was a simple initial question that had been put to a group of eight migrants – ‘What would you do if we gave you the keys of this theatre?’ What those men, coming from all around the Mediterranean basin and the sub-Saharan countries of Africa, decided to do was to tell their story – under the direction of Richard Maxwell; to bring together a composite picture of the hardship and exploitation they endured on land and sea to get to the ‘promised land’ (where, as noted previously, the pavements turn out to be more litter-strewn than paved in gold). The action of the play moves from the stage to a space high up at the back of the auditorium, thus requiring us all to turn and watch from below as best we can (the intention perhaps being to induce a tiny physical inconvenience - no more than that - into the audience’s experience). It is a tale of endurance, loss and at times sheer terror, but ultimately of triumph. The men now live together in a well-functioning squat in Aubervilliers where, though there is still no security, there is solidarity, determination and energy.
This is not the Paris of teargas and burning bus shelters as featured in the gilets jaunes riots, nor the Paris of the school strikes on Fridays. It’s not the Paris of queues snaking round the pyramid of the Louvre ever since the management changed how people get to look at the Mona Lisa, nor the Paris of the FIAC – the foire internationale de l’art contemporain– where rich people get to spend their excess wealth on objects which someone tells them have ‘investment value’.
This could be called in Zola-esque terms, the underbelly of Paris, except it’s too bold, too strong to be the underbelly of anything. It is indeed more like un vent porteur. Which thought leads me to the bookshelf once again:
‘Oh wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead,
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
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Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! Oh Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?’
Amen to that, Percy.
