If you are looking down, why don't you see me?

The 10th arrondissement of Paris is what many French people would still call "populaire" - which means a "working class" and diverse area. Our street from the very first day was a fascination to me. Each day there were groups of young guys standing around. They didn't speak French and they seemed to be from somewhere in the Middle East. They never seemed to work, yet they were all working age (18-35, or so it appeared). They were never aggressive and mostly huddled together, talking and floating in and out of the phone booths on the street with calling cards in their hands. After a bit of time living in the neighborhood, it became clear that they were Afghan refugees and they were waiting for visas and refugee status in France, or waiting to get to another country.



I spent the day with them today. For a long time I've wanted to hear their stories. A few times I've approached a huddle of these guys and asked if they spoke English or French - on those occasions they didn't. Today, I passed by and stopped to ask again. This time I was extremely fortunate and fell upon one gentleman, Massoud (this is not his real name and he requested not to be featured in any photos here), who had been a translator in Afghanistan and another young man who had worked as a translator in Greece on his way to France as a refugee.

At first, I asked simple questions, like, where do you sleep and do you have enough to eat and are you able to work? These questions opened up a conversation that lasted all morning, into the afternoon and almost until the sun set. Here is what they told me:



They are political refugees. They all agreed that they would rather be in Afghanistan if it were possible. Massoud said, "There are three levels of problems for humans: normal, medium and serious. Every one of these men's problems is serious. We cannot return to our country because it would mean our lives."



"We sleep under the bridge of the canal; at 7am the police come and wake us up. They put lights on your eyes and stand above us and they bring fire station water to put out our fire. We used to sleep in the park, but the police guard the park and won't let us in after sundown now."



"If there weren't charity associations, we would have nothing to eat. We have nowhere to permanently keep our things, they are often confiscated by the police." There is a refugee camp in between Porte de la Chapelle and Porte de Clignancourt named after the famous French soccer player Zinedine Zidane, but they said there is always a waiting list and it is not possible to sleep there every night. "There are charity associations who feed us; this one (he points in the direction) gives us breakfast two days a week and the man inside answers thousands of questions every day. Everyday he responds kindly. He is not the government though."

Massoud's story was unbelievable. He was a translator for the Americans and the British in a rural province in Afghanistan. A member of the Taliban infiltrated his company and became close to Massoud. When Massoud found out the man was from the Taliban it was too late. He had no choices left. The man threatened him that he would either do what he instructed, acting as plotter for the Taliban against the people he worked for, or he would die. This man told Massoud that if he suddenly disappeared (fled) his entire family would be a target. He decided with his family that he should flee regardless. Since he left, he has not been able to have any contact with his family as the numbers he calls are disconnected. He lives uncertain if his family has been killed in his wake.

Thanks to Massoud, I was able to hear many other stories. Unceasingly, every person we spoke to asked the question, "What should we do?" "What can we do?"

Massoud asked me if I wanted to see where they sleep and live. I did.



The canal is made of a series of locks and bridges. This is where they live. We walked under bridges where lines of sleeping bags bordered both edges of the concrete walls.



We walked further along the canal - a place where I often run or walk and can only site carelessness as an explanation for never having seen these places before. Under a particularly thick and wide bridge is the largest place. We walked toward it and I saw laundry hanging on the metal grate and a small square hole by which to enter. They invited me to come in.









They come from all over Afghanistan - but mainly from the rural areas of the provinces. Over and over again I heard tales of how they came to France - often a one-year voyage through Turkey, Greece, Italy and finally France - on foot, by train, boat and car. They once thought Paris would be their "entry to Europe," but now that they are here they don't know why they have come. They cannot work without refugee status. Only 2 out of the almost 50 people I discussed with today had actually obtained 'refugee' status in France. The process is long and difficult. Some had already tried in England and Italy only to be deported back to Afghanistan (and then to re-escape and find their way to another country, France this time).



One of them said: "I spent five years in England and then I was deported back to Afghanistan. The Taliban killed my father, my brother and shot me in the shoulder. It was my second escape after that. I feel that I could make the voyage with my eyes closed now."



He went on to implore Mr. Sarkozy himself: "Have I done something to Sarkozy that he doesn't accept me here? In Persian Sarkozy means someone who looks down. If he is looking down why doesn't he see me?

But it is the same in all European countries and American and Canada."



Another young man (he was maybe 18 years old) told me how he had left Afghanistan with the equivalent of 600 euros and had not spent a penny of it except to call his mother. "She cries when I call her and tells me she is fasting for me. This is such a beautiful place," he said as he looked over at the canal, "but I cannot see the beauty without my family." He had only 100 euros left.



At some point, I pulled out my camera and asked if I could take some photos. Some of the guys reacted defensively, saying that every time a journalist comes and takes photos, they are harassed by the police soon thereafter. Others asked me to take their photo "to show it to the Americans" and showed me places to take other photos of the place itself. I tried to be as respectful as possible and only use the camera when someone requested. We sat and talked for a long time. I listened to their stories and soon we were laughing despite the gravity of what they recounted.



One of the guys asked if he could take a photo and I handed him my camera. He shot the group of people among whom I was sitting. I laughed when I saw the picture. Throughout the day I never felt an ounce of bad will or aggression from any of these men. When I first arrived and sat down on the ground one of them immediately said to another, "You don't know how to treat a guest, get her something to sit on." Soon they apologized for not having tea to offer me. I shook my head overwhelmed by their humanity: in a place where they had been received with so little hospitality, they had lost none of this quality.



"Nobody helps Afghans in this world. Even at the French charities they ask us to wait at the back of the line."

"We are also human - we have relatives and family - but we are treated worse than animals."



In the end I asked them, who would you want to hear your stories?

"A person who cares about us. A person who will do something for us. If they need a refugee, we are real refugees. No way is possible for us."



"I promised my family I would come back for them, that I would take them with me. I have no contact with them. Imagine that, if you lost your family."



They told me they knew many of them would be deported back to Afghanistan. "We will have to be hand to hand with the Taliban - this is the only way to return. If we return, we have no choice but to go back to Afghanistan and join with the Taliban. No other way is possible."

These men as refugees are clearly more than a social inconvenience for countries like France or England or the United States, they are also a political liability. More than any of that though, spending the day with them made see that they are very very human. I've spent the past year walking past them in the street outside my apartment and today is the first day I saw them.



Here is a link to a related article in the NYTimes from this summer.

And another at change.org.

And another about Afghan refugees' rights in the UK (abominable).

A blog on the situation in Greece.