Not all the same but all equal.
It was a long time ago, 36 years to be exact. Some things have changed, some have not. I was new to France. I had a lot to learn, but some things I already understood. For example, I already knew that all immigrants are not created equal.
I arrived in France in June 1987 with a tourist visa that I applied for at the French consulate in New York. France at that time was recovering from a series of deadly terrorist attacks centered in Paris. The Lebanese Hezbollah was planting bombs in the city to protest against French support for Iraq in the Iran-Iraq War. That 8-year conflict lasted from 1980 to 1988, with casualties of over one million, soldiers and civilians combined. At the time, a visa was required to enter the country, but it gave me no rights except those of any tourist eager to discover France.
What the French didn’t know, I had come to stay, with hopes of a job. I’d been contacted by an international school ready to take me on. As my tourist visa excluded employment, I decided to inquire about a work permit at the city hall of Vence, the town where I was living in the Maritime Alps above Nice. This was my first learning experience about immigrants.
I already spoke French well, always a plus in France. The woman in charge of immigration invited me to sit down. I told her about the job offer at the school, one with a very good reputation. She was impressed. We both knew, however, that to obtain a work visa, it was necessary that I apply from the United States. Yet I left her office that day with a work permit, no longer a tourist, suddenly a legal immigrant.
France and the world were a different place then. There were computers, car phones, but no internet, wi-fi or cell phones. We still depended on the post office, and international phone calls were a luxury. In the French town where I lived, it was also easier to be racist.
In that southern town where the summer sun could be brutal, the main square was shaded by plane trees and at its center water flowed from a public fountain. On one side of the square were three cafés; on the other, behind the fountain, a parking lot. The fountain and the cafés were separated by a busy street. It was the demarcation line between the French and “immigrants.”
On the fountain side, on public benches, sat men, their skin creased and brown from working outside in construction, sweeping streets, collecting garbage, doing the unwanted work of French society. These men were immigrants from North Africa. Arabs, as the French called them. On the café-side sat the French and those that blended in, tourists, certain foreign residents, enjoying la dolce vita of the South of France. Everyone knew their place.
I think you can imagine where I sat.
In May 1988 François Mitterrand was reelected President. Very quickly a rumor began circulating that he was offering amnesty to all illegal immigrants. This was at a time when I was attempting to turn that temporary work permit into a one-year resident’s card.
To do that, I could no longer go to the city hall of Vence. This
administrative procedure could only take place at “la préfecture,” the
county seat of the Maritime Alps, an imposing monolith sitting alone on a hill
on the outskirts of Nice. In this area of vacant lots, garages and shopping
centers, many workers like those on the public benches in Vence lived in barracks
built at the edge of the city’s beltway.
I set up an appointment, I put together my dossier, a thick packet of papers proving my identity and most importantly, proving I had a monthly paycheck. The big day finally arrived.
At that time I had a car, a bright yellow Citroën 2 CV, a ridiculous vehicle with, instead of rollup windows, Dumbo-like glass ears that flapped as I drove. It did not go fast but the motor was sturdy and dependable. I drove to the prefecture and parked. I approached the entrance turnstile where, already at that time, there was a security check.
I approached and then I stopped. A mob of mostly young men, mostly from North Africa, Algeria, Tunisia or Morrocco, were trying to scale the high metal fence surrounding the building. Reacting to the rumors of amnesty, many were pressed against its bars, their arms passing through, their hands reaching out in desperation for the right to legally reside in France. Policemen held them back from the entrance checkpoint, where a sign was posted: Immigration Services Closed.
I could have turned back, made another appointment and returned another day, but I noticed the guards were screening people and letting some in. Those who did get through looked a lot like me.
I decided to give it a try. I walked up to the turnstile, a guard waved me through. After all, I “looked French.” Behind me, angry chaos raged. Moving forward, I entered the airtight building, where calm and silence reigned.
In the lobby, people stood quietly in line to renew their driver’s license. Workers carrying files walked through the halls. I followed arrows towards “Immigration.” No one blocked my way. When I got there, I saw the agents in their offices. Some were chatting, drinking coffee with a coworker. There was not a single immigrant in sight – except for me.
I asked a woman if I could enter her office and she said yes. We studied my file. Everything was in order. As with the work permit, the one-year card was issued on the spot. From that point onwards, though my immigration troubles were not over, each year things got easier.
On June 27, 2023, Nahel Merzouk, a 17 year-old Franco-Algerian, was killed at close range by a member of the Police Nationale in the Parisian suburbs. The shooting set off a week of violent rioting in France. Cars went up in flames, stores were looted, public buildings, including schools, were set on fire. Insurance experts claim damages amount to over 600 million euros.
In 36 years some things in France have changed; some have not. Immigration to France is not easy for anyone these days, but to get on in French society, it still helps to look like me.
