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This week's newsletter is penned by Polly Billington who covered the riots in France for the programme:
"How's your French?"
"That's a trick question"
I looked round the office. Someone piped up; "Can you say, 'Please don't throw that molotov cocktail at me?'"
"Oh that kind of French. Yeah I reckon I can."
So I was booked and off to cover the riots.
It's true, my French is good enough to get by in a riot, I thought, as I slipped into slightly disturbed sleep under the channel. I was trying to convince myself because the prospect was terrifying. I got a text wishing me luck from a friend as I emerged into the Northern French countryside. I texted back "I'm more afraid of the bulletins than the bullets".
The suburbs after dark were a no-go zone without a security advisor, even during the day Stefan accompanied me to the Silent March through the suburb of Aulnay sous Bois on Saturday morning. Stefan usually works for oil firms in Iraq. He's not used to journalists and our desire to go towards trouble. This disconcerts him. But I persuade him that it'll be ok to approach a gang of young lads, not taking part in the march but watching from the sidelines. This, I think, is where my language will help. Formal questioning of politicians is not my strength in French. Most of it's been acquired during holidays; sojourns with penfriends, haggling in markets, negotiating deals on French campsites and a smattering of literary translations at Uni don't really prepare you for the refined nuances of political dialogue in the language of diplomacy. Depressingly the social conditions which appear to have given rise to the disturbances now appear to be the same as when I was studying French A level in the Eighties. So that vocabulary, of banlieues - suburbs, HLMs - council estates, chomage - unemployment, all comes in handy.
As for kids on a street corner - I think I can manage. The lads range in age from about fourteen to eighteen, with that shuffling awkwardness of adolescence and the occasional swagger from whoever thinks they're leader for a few moments. They wear the international uniform of the teenager; baseball caps and trainers and hoods. They wouldn't look out of place in London, Manchester, Birmingham. I ask them what they think would stop the riots. They mentioned the mosque - the one that police had fired a tear gas grenade at a week before. All described themselves as muslims, though not all looked like they were from the muslim countries of French colonial times. Some were black, others maghrebins, the polite French word to describe North Africans - arabe is now so drenched in racist connotations, many avoid it. None wore any religious insignia or clothes, though some taking part in the march did so. They were furious about the mosque attack and blamed the lack of "respect" shown by the authorities to their religion for the disturbances. The riots actually started days before this incident; it may have inflamed them but it didn't start them. And then they mentioned Sarkozy. What do you want him to do I asked? I didn't understand the replies I got back. I asked again. Some wanted an apology for calling them "scum" ("racaille" can calso be translated as "rabble" according to Sarkozy's supporters - but the vehemence of the young men's response suggested it was more offensive than that). Others disagreed, arguing down the apparently reasonable request for the interior minister to apologise; but I couldn't understand what they said; again I asked, what do you want Sarkozy to do? On the taxi on the way over I'd practised this conversation with the taxi driver; I was listening out for the straightforward phrases - we want him to go/he's got to quit.
Eventually Stefan nudged me in the ribs. "That's what they're saying" he pointed out, "they're calling for the resignation of Nicolas Sarkozy." I listened again as they crowded round, this once reluctant gaggle of boys now eager to get their voice to the microphone. "Yes exactly, we want the resignation of Nicolas Sarkozy, nothing else will stop the trouble."
So there on a street corner in the riot torn corner of Paris called Aulnay, I added a new word to my limited French vocabulary - previously used to translating Flaubert, Sartre and chateau guidebooks. La demission de Sarkozy. Voila. The bulletins don't scare me anymore. I'm learning.
Polly
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