Today's lesson ended with a whole other adventure that I didn't anticipate. Our park is the gathering point for all Afghans passing through or living in Paris. I met some minors who'd been given accommodation and French schooling by the state. One spoke French with real confidence and told me that he'd been learning at school for three months, I was incredibly impressed. "I live just outside Paris," he said, "I just come by to see my friends, whoevers here." During our lesson a really scruffy, unkempt guy came to me and said with a Pashto yet clearly London accent, "I hear you speak English and French?" He pointed at his foot. "I need to go to the hospital, will you take me and translate for me, I can't speak French" I wasn't sure about this guy, he had what looked like just a big blister on his foot so I agreed but asked if he would wait until we finished our lesson in thirty minutes. He waited. I just wanted to kind of suss him out a little bit. As we continued this guy joined in, helped translate between Pashto and English as I tried to explain the difference between "Bon soir", "bon nuit" and "bon soirée". They got it quickly. We talked, joked and I felt more comfortable with him. When our lesson finished we walked (he limped) to the local hospital where he got seen to pretty quickly. He had an abscess on the sole of his right foot which would only grow bigger and lead to blood poisoning if left unchecked. As we walked back and forth between the reception and waiting room a guy repeatedly tried to catch his attention saying, "Afghan? Afghan?" We walked on. Who's that, what do you think he wants? I asked. "I dunno," he replied, "he looks Bangladeshi, they recognise Afghan's, they know we're living on the street, could be anything."
While we waited he told me his story. He was 23 and seemed weary and tired of the past eight years spent bouncing around Europe and Afghanistan. He shook his head as he looked down, "I'm lost in Europe." He had arrived to Paris from Calais three weeks ago. As we talked I realised that his swagger and chat came from having lived in the same part of London as me where he worked as a cook. I learned that the familiar twang I'd noticed immediately in his English accent came from having spent time with a lot of Jamaicans so we reminisced about London. "When I went back to Afghanistan the first time I left it had changed completely," he said, "it was like the whole place had been bombed, there's nothing there." He told me that he'd worked briefly as a translator for the US army but that it made his life very complicated with his fellow Afghans and so he quit and left. Without going into more details I knew that this young man was exactly the kind of migrant that the readers of The Daily Mail absolutely fear and abhor. I asked him to describe to me an average day in his life: kicked awake by the police at 6am, queues for food (once in the morning and once at night), appointments, the park, sleeping in packs for protection. Here's what it was like, to live day in and day out waiting to be accepted into any country where, his words, he could rebuild his life: "time just blurs into time, it's limbo, just waiting everyday you know?" He apologised repeatedly for being dirty and asked if I could help him stay in France. I replied that the associations that he had already made contact with were better equipped than me but look, I said, you can't speak a word of French, let me teach you while we're waiting so at least you have something. I taught him phrases to appease police and a bundle of other phrases like "une bouteille d'eau", "je comprends", "je ne comprends pas", "ou? Quoi? Quand? Qui?" He asked for the piece of paper with our notes, folded it and put it into his pocket.
The doctor called him into the treatment room and I translated what they were going to do. His whole exterior soon dropped once they showed him a mask for the gas he was going to have to breathe while they cut open and treated his foot: panic. The doctor was kind but firm and explained that this was a completely normal procedure, that she had treated much much worse cases and the gas was essential for the pain he was going to feel. Leaving out the ins and outs of how I realised the following, I could see that the fact that he was going to be rendered powerless in a room full of people that he didn't know, couldn't understand and in an environment where he knew everybody knew he was a completely illegal alien was freaking him out. The fragility of his situation hit me and I went out into the corridoor and shed a couple of tears which I'm glad I got out of the way as when the treatment began (anyone who has had anything similar will understand!) his pain was excrutiating and the gas made him disorientated. The doctor called me back into the room with a friendly smile, "he thinks we're killing him so you better come in to calm him down."
An expertly bandaged foot, a fat box of paracetamol, a tetanus jab and lots and lots of thank-you's later and we were walking (he, dazed but walking much more comfortably) back to the park. When we were in sight of it he relaxed and showed huge relief. "Thank God," he said, "When I see the park I feel secure again, I can't explain it, it's what I know." I asked what time the nightly queue for food ended and he said that he'd missed it. He said that he'd also missed an appointment with an old friend who was meeting him on his day off work and might have a lead for somewhere to crash. You know he'll be back to the park, I said trying to be positive but also knowing it to be true, he'll come back on his next day off I'm sure. We shook hands and he hobbled off to his place. As I walked towards the metro I realised that I'd made a stupid error at the pharmacy when they gave him his medicine. The pharmacist had pulled out tablets that had to be dissolved into a cup of water three times a day instead of the prescribed gel capsules. At the time none of us thought it a big deal but now I realised that pills simply swallowed with water are more practical for a homeless person who has to actively go out and hunt a cup. Tsk. Idiot. My lesson for the day. This guy has been on the road for eight years my practical side told my more emotional side, he'll know how to find a plastic cup.
No comments:
Post a Comment