d. not willing to let anything prevent you from doing what you have decided to do
1. Where are the people in the text travelling to?
2. When did they leave Algeria?
3. Why are they going back?
4. What was the attitude of French people towards them when they arrived in France?
5. When did Pierre’s family first settle in Algeria?
6. What did Enrico think of Algiers?
No one says a word. They are anxious, lost in their memories and perhaps their fears too. Once on board
the plane they start to relax. “When we get there, it will be like stepping back into my teens,” says Robert,
60. It is his wife Marie-France’s first flight. They live near Marseille, and in less than an hour they will be in
Algiers. “I have two little brothers there,” he suddenly says. They are buried in the Christian cemetery of
As we approach Algiers he becomes more talkative. “I was born in the Hussein Dey district,” he says. “I
started work at 15. We lived in a rented flat, but we were happy. All we wanted was to go to the beach, do
some fishing and shooting.” When the plane lands, Robert simply says: “Here I am, back where I started 44
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Everyone in the group of about 50 people seems to want to do the same thing: see their old street, their
house, maybe their school and perhaps some childhood friends. The three-day tour is organised by a
French tour company which organises visits specially for French people who left Algeria in 1962. In the past
two years about 60,000 people have made the trip and numbers are increasingly steadily.
“When I saw the advert I didn’t hesitate for long,” says Lydia, 50. “My family and friends all said: ‘Algiers? But
you’re crazy. What are you are going to do in a place like that? What do you expect to find?’ Perhaps they
think we are going to Baghdad.” She was determined to go and told them: “Perhaps I’ll be disappointed, but
at least I’ll have tried.” So here they are again in Algiers for the first time in almost half a century. During the
dark years of Islamist terror (1990-2000) they thought they would never see the place again. For many it is
a big surprise, the streets full of people, the traffic jams and pollution, the innumerable satellite dishes, and
washing drying everywhere.
They cannot believe the warmth of their reception. Wherever they go they hear the same greeting:
“Welcome home.” Older people come up to them and ask, in French: “Why did you leave? Come back, we
need you.” Even the young people tell them: “It’s good to see Europeans again.” As time passes the anger
they have felt for so long begins to disappear. Who, they wonder, was actually threatening them when they
left in such a hurry in the summer of 1962? Was it the victorious National Liberation Front or the [far-right]
OAS extremists? Nothing seems clear any more. “I should never have left. Here, at least, I would have been
some use,” says Mary-Josette, a retired nurse. “We had no choice. We had to go,” say the others.
None of them have forgotten their nightmare arrival in France. Suddenly Algeria was no longer part of
France and they were no longer important. They lost everything. In France people were indifferent to them
and sometimes even hostile. “In Marseille and Toulon they referred to us as ‘repatriates’ but that was
nonsense. We were immigrants. Only here, in Algeria, are we really repatriates,” says Lydia.
Fabienne, 73, and Pierre, 60 met on the plane and discovered they were born in the same quarter of
Algiers. Fabienne is a colourful figure. Pierre, in contrast, is quiet, with blue eyes and fair hair. His family,
from Alsace, first settled in Algeria in 1870. He plans to visit his family’s old flat, a move that seems too
daring for Fabienne. She gathers some earth from outside her former home, a dilapidated block of flats.
This is where she used to buy doughnuts for breakfast and where she did her athletics training. At one point
in the 1950s she was the “Algerian champion over 100 and 200 metres”. She sees a bar she used to visit.
“Ah, I was young then,” she says, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. To the Algerians who smile at her,
she says: “Khuya” [my brother], adding: “I feel I know them, we have the same blood.”
When he reaches his building Pierre hesitates. “It’s all a bit too much,” he says, his voice full of emotion. He
climbs to the second floor and rings the bell. The door opens slightly. His wife Dominique waits on the stairs,
anxious. Her husband has been dreaming of this moment for 40 years and she wonders what will happen if
he is turned away. A woman, in her 60s appears. “Come in,” she says with a smile. Little has changed inside
the flat. Pierre goes from room to room. He finds the room where he was born, once occupied by his mother,
a musician. And here is the fireplace where the family used to put their Christmas presents. For a while,
Pierre says nothing, lost in his thoughts.
“Goodness, you have kept everything the same as it was,” says Pierre. The woman, who has lived in the flat
with her husband’s family since 1963, says: “This gentleman was born here and now he is reliving his whole
life. It must be terrible for him.” Finally everyone sits down and they exchange addresses. “You must come
back with your family, stay for a week,” says the old woman’s husband, when the visitors leave. “It’s a lot to
take all at once,” says Pierre, his eyes full of tears.
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