Alibekov has had it with France.
He is a French native, a well-educated 30-year-old conservative blogger of African descent. He is also nominally a Muslim — he pretended to convert in order to marry his new bride and appease his future in-laws.
Alibekov has just decided to turn his back on his home country, where his grandparents hid Jews during the Second World War. He has almost completed the paperwork required to emigrate to Canada, and will be leaving soon.
After finishing his education, Alibekov lived and worked for six years in Africa. When he returned home to the Paris area, he was horrified by what he saw. Back in June he wrote this post for his blog, Bouteille à l’Amer, which he shares with his friend Memento Mouloud.
Our French correspondent Robert Marchenoir has translated Alibekov’s post, which has been broken up into two parts for Big Peace. A third installment containing Robert Marchenoir’s commentary will follow the two-part translation.
Alibekov told the translator that all the facts in the following eyewitness report are genuine — only the names have been changed.
First of all, let us extend a warm welcome to Abiba. She has just arrived from Cameroon, thanks to a tourist visa her husband got her by bribing some official. Abiba plans to give birth in France. She expects the authorities will be kind enough to grant her legal residency status, because of her child. She will spend one or two years in low-cost hotels, moving from time to time. [The government will pick up the bill — translator.] After that, the happy family will be granted a city council flat by the social services, on the grounds of her being a single mother. They will also provide her with a job, so she can pay part of the rent.
This valuable advice has been passed on to her by her aunt, who has been living in France for five years. Her aunt had received it previously from a cousin, who has been living in France for ten years.
We are headed for the district of Seine-Saint-Denis, in order to attend a funeral in an African family.
[Seine-Saint-Denis is a district adjacent to the northern limit of Paris proper. The first bishop of Paris, Saint Denis, was buried there in the 3rd century. French kings have been buried in the basilica of the town of Saint-Denis since the 7th century. The ill-famed district, also known by its administrative number, “the 93rd”, is nowadays one of the most heavily populated by immigrants.]
We reach high-rise concrete buildings, planted next to some wasteland. I am immediately reminded of The Dormant Beast, [the sci-fi comic book] by Enki Bilal: an apocalyptic landscape, repulsively filthy, and an out-of-this world population.
Bearded men with moronic looks, dressed as if they were in Islamabad, come out from nowhere, huddling together. I try to catch their eyes, but their gaze remains perfectly alien to me. All I can see in it is some sort of mystical fear, mixed with unfathomable stupidity.
Slouching on a bench next to tuned-up cars with blaring stereos, some youngsters listen to “Raï and B” music (so as to assume a “French” identity, as opposed to an American one). They dutifully proceed to create a tapestry of glistening spit to stamp their feet on.
Next to the front door lies a heap of refuse originating from the local McDonald’s, KFC, and grocery store. Banana peels and peanut shells degrade into a strange form of humus.
A diminutive white lady, followed by her ten-year-old son, makes a desperate effort to keep the place bearable: while on her way, she stoops to pick up three discarded bags of French fries, and throws them in the bin where they belong. As soon as she walks into the lobby, a youngster dumps his uneaten shawarma right in front of the glass door.
We proceed towards the Eastern building, staircase B. The corridor is flanked by mail boxes with Arab names, sometimes barely emerging from under fading graffiti.
[Expletive omitted.] The stench of urine is suffocating. Tears come instantly to my eyes. It gets worse as we set foot in the elevator. I am advised to stay clear of the steel sides. Once polished, they are now stained with vertical streaks of rust. It seems the elevator’s walls react to urine as swiftly as pH test paper.
Tomorrow: Part 2.
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