Despite some preconceptions that Paris is a kind of living mausoleum, today I didn't need to check my newspaper to know the date. Or a map to tell myself in which city I was sitting. Any time traveller, certainly one with even a passing interest in French history could pinpoint the date, the year, the city, even the neighbourhood just by what could be seen from my spot on the bench in our park. For a start it was a hot day despite the leaves on the trees having turned gold and rusty coloured. From the bench I saw two groups of old Algerian men playing pétanque. Past retirement age they knew eachother and the other retired Algerians sitting on the shaded benches that lined the pétanque terrain which was a well played and, in parts, quite tricky one. Sitting on the bench to my right were four Afghan youths gazing at the scene. One old pétanque player had a special magnet-on-a-string contraption, made for those whose spinal vertebrae don't like the fuss and bother of bending down to pick up metal boules all day long. Another old man arrived to the pitch with a hop, a smile and loud greeting to his fellow players. I may be late his entrance said but I'm ready to play. To my side was a way way old Algerian with a bottle of beer in his hand, a snazzy black sequinned Fedora on his head, an empty yellow pottery jug by his side and a huge medical bandage on his forefinger. It was hard to understand all that he was saying but he did point a lot with his bandaged finger and coached his buddies as they threw boules at the cochon.
Under the sign that read "Pétanque Club" was a table full of old French men and women playing cards, about six of them and a jolly time they were having too. The pétanque players and the card players would chat and exchange places but when both groups games were going good they were going good and concentration broken only by jibing was in the air. Snacks and sandwiches were taken out of plastic tubs and shared. Across the way on the sports court were six Chinese teenagers playing basketball. Three had purple shirts to denote their team. They were average players, they tried out tricks and missed the hoop more often than scoring but you could see that they were having a lot of fun. I was fascinated with watching them play not least because sometimes, when watching professional basketball, the ball just moves too fast for me to to know what's happening. It felt so good to watch a game being played at a speed my eyes could trace. I also enjoyed watching the six lads interact: friends. An Afghan of the same age walked along the side of the court and gently kicked them the ball when it fell out of play.
Out in the park, stretched or sitting on the grass were many, many other Afghans and many French, infact I can't tell you all the nationalities that were on the grass today as there were quite a few. I can tell you that it was sunny, I can tell you that one of the velo police had a really handsome smile, I can tell you that the vibe was relaxed and I can tell you that I was late for my appointment with some newly made friends and had missed them. But I knew they would be back hence why I was killing time at the pétanque pitch. Sure enough, an hour later when I finally folded up my copy of the International Herald Tribune, stood up and scoped out our meeting place, there they were: Luckman, Hamid and Mohammed with some other little friends too, all sitting on the grass, they too killing time in this small park in Paris that has been nicknamed 'Little Kabul'.
All smiles and my apologies for being late we shake hands and sit on the grass. Despite the heat, the temperature on the ground as I sit reminds me that one season is saying good-bye and it's opposite will arrive before long. Luckman is listening and humming along to music on his mobile phone with a friend. Hamid and I talk about his French classes which he finished today at 2pm. Mohammed just grins. Hamid begins the business of our day quickly. They are to teach me Pashto, one of the main languages spoken in Afghanistan. In return I'm helping them with their French and English. More of their friends join us and they're all keen to tell Hamid how my first lesson should proceed. There's some debate on which kind of Pashto I'm to learn, how many Pashto letters I should learn today and a little passing of the paper and pen goes on before Hamid settles to write the Pashto alphabet for me.
Of the six young men I'm sitting with I could say that all are under twenty-five, probably more around the twenty mark. One of them definitely has a roof to sleep under at night. One of the smartest ones also looks to be one of the youngest, say seventeen. All of them are clean and immaculately tidy but this young guy has that subtle extra layer of dust on his face and hair that confirms he's sleeping rough. "Today you will learn five Pashto letters," he says to me. Mohammed raises his eyebrows with a big smile and reiterates by holding up his small hand, "five". They all have many old and healed nicks and scars on their arms. More than the average boisterous teenager? Yes, I would say. They all look healthy and fed though. My mind also knows this to be the case as, on entering the park, I saw a mobile medical drop-in bus on the street outside labelled, Medecins Sans Frontiéres. I also know for a fact that charities and organisations of citizens in the area are all working to reach these kids with food, clothes and education.
The whole group takes interest in what Hamid and I are doing. I recite the Pashto alphabet after Hamid, it's pretty hard for me to wrap my tongue around some of the letters. After Pashto we all do the same with the French and English alphabet. It's small Mohammed that's encouraged to sit next to me as we do the French and English parts as he's the one who knows the least and it's with him that I made this friends pact to swap languages. At the time of the agreement Hamid offered himself as the go-between for us both because he speaks English. This whole agreement initially began when I first showed these boys a Pashto-English dictionary I had bought and through their response I could see that it was pint-sized Mohammed that needed it the most. "Can I have?" he had asked me. Tell you what, I replied, let's share it, we'll teach eachother. "OK" he said grinning, "OK."
After the Pashto alphabet we go through the days of the week in English, French and Pashto. I draw a picture of the sun to explain Sunday. Next he repeats after me, "je m'appelle Mohammed", concentrating so hard he cracks up with laughter at the situation. I draw a picture of a snail followed by a picture of Paris and all it's arrondissements to illustrate how the cities different areas are laid out in its circular form of twenty postcodes. I remember when a French friend first explained this to me when I arrived in Paris and how suddenly the unfathomable city began to make sense. I hoped that it would make some sense to Mohammed too. It did. Not so much my wonky drawing of a snail but the circular layout of the city was definitely understood. "We are in the first?" asked the youngest lad. I shook my head and pointed out our position.
Some police walk by and say hello. A toddler in the French family sitting behind us begins screaming, I didn't look (to me this is France and there are babies everywhere) but Hamid stops mid-sentence to see what's happening. The toddler had tumbled and the mother swept her child into her arms. Hamid watches the mother rock the child then returns to what he was telling me. Another boy of around eighteen joins us. I recognise him, this young lad with big eyes. I knew him to be a little more serious than his friends, his shoulders were always a little stooped, and that he could speak good English. He watches as our language lessons progress but actually he's more interested in my newspaper. Hamid pauses and pointing at the paper asks, "is there news of Afghanistan?" Ok, I said, let's hear what's happening in the news today. Beginning with the front page I explain every article in simple terms to six pairs of ears that lean in close. Here they are investigating the groups that attacked Mumbai. Here are spy photos of hidden nuclear sites in Iran. Here Gordon Brown has just given a rousing speech at the Labour Conference. Everybody points out that they recognise the face of Gordon Brown. Inwardly I quickly realise that even if these boys couldn't understand the details of what I was saying, each of the news stories has an arguably direct impact on their lives. "I am from Pakistan," said the new boy, "from the border. There we are at war, very dangerous life." There was a photo of a bombed building in a hot country with women wearing headscarves walking past. "Afghanistan?" said another boy. No, Gaza. He pointed at the bombed building. "Like Afghanistan," he informed me. On page three there was a story about Afghanistan, about NATO pledging to deploy more troops to the region. Suddenly I got the immediate feeling that these boys were wishing for different news, more regular, basic news of life at home like if, for example, we could read news of Hamid's family in the newspaper. We couldn't. "It's not yet safe for me to go home," said the boy from the Pakistan border. No, I replied, I guess not. He turned the page. Here's some news about Hollywood, I said. "Bollywood?!" No, I laughed. "Who is this?" the boy asked. This, I said, is Drew Barrymore, she is an actress. "Good?" Yeah pretty good.
As we turned back to our studies this boy took back my newspaper and restarted at the front page with a furrowed brow. He stopped at one page and, pointing to the section headline said, "business!" Yes, I replied. "Yes," he repeated and studied the page hard holding my dictionary in one hand. "If you can find a Pashto-French dictionary would also be good," he said motioning towards his Afghan friends. I told him that I would find an address for a shop and bring it back next time. I didn't ask him if he was OK reading my newspaper alone or needed help, he was clearly a bright young man who wanted to figure out what he could by himself. I watched him leaning over the pages thinking that I was never that interested in the news when I was eighteen. But then at eighteen I wasn't alone, thousands of miles away from a home that was an unstable and dangerous warzone. I would like to think that boys growing up in villages on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan have the option of deciding which side they must choose once some deem them old enough to carry a gun. Common sense tells me this teenager decided on neither and voted simply by using his feet.
No comments:
Post a Comment