Winter in Paris part 1
It’s been a long while since I updated this blog, a lot has happened. First there was a bit of to’ing and fro’ing. One of the boys, Jahandar, who’d arrived to Paris, exhausted and dirty from the razing of the Pashtun camp in Calais finally decided to return to Northern France. During his brief stay in Paris however he’d become attached to Mehrab, the pint-sized guy with a lion heart, easy humour and sharp sense for his coterie’s safety from the dangers that sleeping on the streets of any city can bring.
Jahandar spent weeks trying to persuade Mehrab to take the journey to Calais with him. In a quiet moment I asked Mehrab what his thoughts were on the subject. Knowing no English he explained by way of pointing at items and play acting (like charades) that the press covering Calais frightened him and that since his dossier of application for residency is in Paris he should stay put. The vibe of his thinking was, since he had already spent seven months in Paris and had taken great care not to do anything to jeopardize his application he was worried about rocking the boat. Regardless, Jahandar raised his campaign of persuasion almost hourly, trying each and every way to get Mehrab to agree. “It is just for you that you want him to be in Calais, it is not for the good of him,” reasoned 17 year old Imran in English.
Jahandar left Paris and returned a couple of times but finally left for Calais without Mehrab. As this process happened winter began approaching fast and it became apparent that continuing our French lessons on a park bench was going to tricky. Citizen groups local to the area in which these boys sleep plus charities started holding frequent meetings in anticipation of the cold, it felt like a race against the forces of nature. Shelter had to be organised for these boys, estimated to be around just 150 in Paris and found fast.
December. Freezing. One day, in a big coat and hat, Mehrab was the only guy waiting for me which would prove interesting as not only does he not know any English but his first language is neither Pashtun nor Dari but a language that is indiginous to a tribe of just 500,000 Afghans in the East of Afghanistan. “You’re teaching him French?” a wise-guy had joked while Mehrab pretended to playfight him, “he can hardly speak and write our language let alone English or French, this guy knows nothing,” he laughed slapping the bench, “you will be sitting here for years!” Secondly we are usually with Imran who speaks English but he was away emailing his family. Well, I know the Pashtu word for tea so we went for some black tea and to mull things over.
There is a tiny place where all the guys congregate to eat cheap Halal food and drink the sour yoghurt-like drink, the name of which eludes me. This no-frills eaterie feels like a pit-stop for an infinite number of road movies starring the fascinating variation of faces that come from Afghanistan. The quiet Hazara with their Asian features and neat rucksacks; the cheeky team of teenagers who grew up in refugee camps in Pakistan (“I have never been to Afghanistan but I am Afghan!” one told me proudly). The twenty-somethings (from Jalalabad, Kandahar, the Waziristan borders…towns, villages, valleys, mountains…) of which is a huge handsome giant of a guy named Pad who, they say, has a brother who does body building in Pakistan; stand behind him when a biting gust of wind hits and you’re protected from the cold sting by his huge frame!
Then there are the tall thin youngsters with light brown hair, green eyes, perfect posture and (I don’t know why this seems to be unique only to them) brightly coloured ski jackets. These young boys yet too young to shave are hypnotic to watch as they sit eating their food silently like boy princes, incredibly poised in comparison to the other teens who need no excuse to begin playing MP3′s from their mobile phones and ping around like jumping beans until Pad rises from his seat like a giant, using only his height to demand calm. “Hey!” answers one such jumping bean to Pad one day, “you can’t tell me what to do!” An instantaneous chorus breaks out as every twenty-something in the room looks up from his food to protest this behavour, shooing him out of the room by motioning their hands. “Who can eat with your noise?” asks one. “Get back to the street refugee!” quips another and the whole room laughs. The teenager leaves full of bravado and comical back-chat. The Hazara resume their quiet, private conversations and the little princes continue to survey this and all passing scenes in regal silence.
So, back to our cup of tea and what to do? Hmm. Mehrab says, “beer?” Ah, I say and I write down on a piece of paper “gauche, droite, aller tout droit, arrete, aller” and we spend some time working it all out. It’s bloody freezing outside, impossible to stand still so the game is that Mehrab directs me in French to various spots that we know then I direct him in Pashto. After twenty minutes we’re freezing so I get him to direct me to the warm bar to get a beer. Amazing how fast the human brain can learn new words when your toes and fingers are turning to icicles and there’s a nice pint waiting in a warm bar at the end of the days lesson.
