Drama on Autobus 31
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I
remember when I moved to Paris in 1991, I never heard of anyone being
attacked. I will admit that there always has been, and still is, a lot
of thievery here–it’s better to have a purse with flaps and to keep
track of your luggage and packages placed on the ground. In fact, I
never leave my purse on the ground anymore after having one stolen that
way in 1991. But violence was never an issue. It is now.
I’m
hearing more and more about friends of friends in Paris not only being
ripped off, but attacked at the same time. When you think of the
history of the city, this pales in comparison. But it seems to me there
are some big problems coming down the road. They’re coming from the
banlieus where the disaffected kids of immigrants live in housing
projects called HLM’s in a kind of nightmare setting. I’ve seen some of
them, and they are just as bad as described. I’ve also heard stories
about what it’s like to live in those neighborhoods and suffer the type
of violence and aggression most Americans associate with the inner
city. On the one hand, these kids were raised in France; they know
that they have rights, but are discriminated against in a really
blatant way. You’d be mad too. On the other hand, they also think it
less and less of a big deal to resort to violence.
The
Leftist government tended to support whoever was oppressed, whether or
not they were violent and posed a threat to everyone else, and did not
really support the police. Jacques Chiraq and the new government were
recently elected for these very reasons. They should be making some
changes such as increased penalties for young offenders, which were
minimal to say the least. However, if they don’t work to end the
discrimination against and the isolation of these outlying communities,
the problem will only get worse. “A voir,” as they say.
But sometimes Paris is still Paris and small miracles take place when you least expect them.
months ago I was visiting a friend who lives near the Champs Elysées in
a posh neighborhood, to say the least. One way for me to return home is
to take Autobus 31, which starts near the Champs and then makes
its way east across the northern neighborhoods of Paris which are far
from posh–like mine. Although my quartier may not be lovely, it’s
lively! In fact, I often return home alone quite late at night, and
it’s fine. And I feel safer there after dark than I did in Santa
Monica, California, where I lived just before I moved to Paris. It’s
ironic to think of Santa Monica, so upper middle class, feeling more
dangerous than the poor Arab, African, Chinese and Sri Lankan (all
combined) neighborhood were I live now.
That evening I boarded
Autobus 31 on Avenue de Friedland near Etoile. The 31 is a sort of
double bus–2 busses connected in the middle by an accordion-like seal
that allows it to turn corners, so it’s quite long. I seated
myself in the back and settled myself in for the uneventful ride home.
Several stops later I noticed a short, middleaged, “white” Frenchman,
gripping the support pole that runs from the floor to the ceiling of
the bus, as if his life depended on it. From the vacant
expression in his eyes and the blank expression on his face, I
concluded that he was just a bit mentally handicapped. I watched,
fascinated, as he gripped the pole, standing rigidly in the middle of
the aisle so that each passenger had to ask him to step aside whenever
they went from the door of the bus to take their seat in the rear, or
vice versa.
By the middle of the route, the bus was quite
full, mostly with people from the non-posh neighborhoods we were
passing through. Suddenly, a young North African man in the front of
the bus, kind of scraggly looking, started shouting at the top of his
lungs as he lurched towards the back of the bus. What he was shouting
was that the man clutching the pole was a bastard, how dare he block
the aisle like that and that he would beat him to a pulp right there
and then–again. I think the little gray-haired, (and at this point)
wild-eyed man almost stopped breathing he was so scared–you could feel
his fear. (I was sitting right next to him–he was really was really
gripping the bus pole then.) As the young North African kept
advancing, shouting and gesticulating towards the back of the bus, the
unexpected happened.
we had picked up a lot of passengers from the poor neighborhoods we had
passed through. Many of these passengers were African. Well–they went
into action. I don’t think they knew each other, but they were so
coordinated it seemed as if they did. Two or three guys, about twice as
big as the potential attacker, approached him and talked to him as they
politely, but firmly, pushed him towards the middle of the bus. Then,
somehow, they forced him off the bus at the next stop! Several
others gently pushed the handicapped man further towards the rear of
the bus, got him seated and then several women sat next to him, talking
to him quietly and calmed him down. Voilà. Welcome to Paris. Thus was
violence averted.
The most irritating thing was that I
was so drawn into this drame, I missed my stop and had to backtrack a
good ways to get home! But, OK, it was worth it and a small price to
pay to see strangers group together in order to protect the weak and
prevent violence. And this is not the first time I’ve seen it happen in
Paris. In the end, I suppose we were all lucky that the young North
African man was not carrying a gun.
Feldman is an intercultural specialist working with English speaking
expatriates to help them integrate into french life, both
professionally and personally. In addition she works with French
executives who need to communicate internationally.