I returned to France at exactly the time when what I had seen brewing during my twelve-year stay here (between 2005 and 2017) was happening, what I feared, what had been the main reason for my departure: the extreme right in power, shamelessly supported by private media owned by millionaires, even during election periods, even though it is forbidden.
I arrived in France from Montreal, as I have every summer since I no longer live there, impatient to return to the places and people I have never stopped loving, and this country which I felt had rejected me, but where I have, against all odds, dug something like roots.
I wanted to become a French citizen. I took the humiliating steps several times, without going through with it because they were so dissuasive. I remember the time, under Nicolas Sarkozy, when my doctorate in French literature from the University of Montreal was not considered equivalent to a third-year level (4e secondary school in Quebec), that of the national brevet diploma, because the University of Montreal was French-speaking and not French. So I was required to take language courses to learn to speak like a 14-year-old French high school student and not like a Quebecer with a doctorate in French literature…
But I must not think too much about this unfortunate story. That is not what this is about today. It is about me, returning to France at the exact moment of the two rounds of these historic legislative elections, finding a country that is exactly where I feared it would end up that I left it. I who am surprised when I set foot again in these places that were my home for twelve years — these places where I was afraid of the unbridled rightward shift of media and political discourse, afraid of attacks and their long-term consequences, afraid that hatred would eventually win — to see that, returning to the places of all that… I am not afraid. I who see all this without blinking. Lucid. Indignant, but not afraid. Standing tall. And measuring it even more during the evenings of reunions with friends between the first and second rounds.
I watched my friends during those delicious hours of reunion, I listened to them talk, and analyze the situation with lucidity, but combativeness, and I realized reminded me how much and why I love them, what they taught me and how they were voices that brought me back to calm when I lived here and was terrified. Then I realized that even if I had not followed through with the process of applying for citizenship, I had become a dual national at heart. I had become French. It blew me away, as they say here.
So we were heading towards the second round. All we dared to hope for was that the National Rally (RN) would not have an absolute majority. The dreamiest among us hoped that the gap between the RN and the New Popular Front (NFP) would be very close… the most daring dared to dream of an NFP in first with the RN close behind in second. We went about our business, trying not to panic. (I succeeded and I couldn’t believe it.)
The people I met in my wanderings, passers-by, shopkeepers, reminded me of how a certain France behaves in serious moments: strangers would engage in small, fraternal and indignant conversations, sometimes even humorous ones, in their daily activities.
Where the last seven years of my stay have been spent, the Gratte-Ciel district of Villeurbanne, I went back to the Monoprix on the corner of the street to do my shopping and I found the same prankster and deadpan cashier straight out of a José Giovanni novel.
In the neighborhood, a man gave me a leaflet from the New Popular Front, and we had one of those conversations like the ones I had when I lived here: “I’m a foreigner, I can’t vote, but I support!” “Oh! Madam, thank you, we’re counting on you to talk to your loved ones about it, and we’re working so that people like you can live more peacefully!” “I know! It’s important and it feels good! Thank you!” “Thank you!” “Goodbye!” “Goodbye!” “And have a good vote!” “Fingers crossed!” “We believe in it!”
The next day, while going shopping, the lady at the tobacconist’s, seeing that my Canadian credit card was acting up and wouldn’t get along with her machine, said to me, all smiles: “Say, is that a foreign or binational card you have or what? Oh, you’re Canadian? Run away there quickly!” “Imagine, look at the name on the card: Abdelmoumen” “Oh, my poor thing, you’re accumulating!” before warmly wishing me a pleasant stay.
All of this was part of my life here in Lyon, in times of great collective upheaval, particularly during the period of the attacks. And I found all of this again, gripped by a deep sense of belonging.
July 7th finally arrived. The friend who is hosting me and I went to the terrace on the Croix-Rousse plateau with some of her friends and strangers. The first real results were going to be slow and we knew it, so we learned to get to know each other, to get carried away together, to express our fear of what was going to fall on us in an hour, twenty minutes, twenty seconds… This table, which I had never met, but which I very much hope to see again one day, was made up of French people, Italians and your very devoted Quebecer from the souk, an artist, translators, teachers, an engineer, a writer (bibi). It was so great and so much of what I love about life here that I forgot the time.
But suddenly, my friend exclaimed. She let out a real cry of surprise. “The left is first, the center is second… the National Rally is… third!” At the same time, all the other tables on the terrace received the same information, and then I wouldn’t know how to describe this moment: hearts and glasses rising, and a chorus of cries of shock and relief. And joy.
A few minutes later, a small group passed by on the sidewalk. The euphoric leftist beast on the terrace turned its 100 heads away and fixed its 200 eyes on the group. And the people in the group, with a wry smile, began to sing “la jeunesse emmerde le front national” on the terrace, which then applauded, shouted, raised its glasses. I said to myself, and I even wrote it on Facebook to a French friend who lives in Montreal: “My God, I am so happy to be here to experience this.”
The sequel will be complicated and everyone here knows it. But no one will deny the symbolic importance of what happened, and the pride of having dared to believe in it.
“Those who say a thing is impossible are often interrupted by others doing it,” wrote James Baldwin.
I was told that it was quite simple, as the wife of a French expat (which is my case), to apply for French citizenship in Montreal, through the consular services. I think I might try my luck, after all. I am much less easily impressed than last time, and I am much more patient.