For its second dip into blogging archives, undeterred by impertinent suggestions that it is a little early for greatest hits collections, Salut! returns to a piece about violence in the French suburbs that attracted a huge electronic postbag when first published in June 2006. Readers who remember feeling sympathetic towards Lana Wong, the heroine of my tale, may find the postscript of interest - and it now includes her own update, including news of a nasty, lingering souvenir of our experiences
When I think of the deaths in Iraq of two courageous members of a TV film crew, and the maiming of the reporter, what happened to us in a bleak Parisian suburb fades to nothing.
But then, what happened to me actually was nothing. It was the unfortunate photographer working with me who suffered. In the last few seconds of the couple of minutes we were apart, she was beaten to the ground, punched and kicked and robbed of her expensive camera and other possessions.
Lana Wong is a delightful American lady, born in New York to Hong Kong parents. Married to a Briton and living in Paris, she previously worked for five years in Africa.
Nothing happened to her in Africa to resemble her first encounter with danger in the French ghettoes. Mugged in broad daylight on the “nice” side of the street across from one of the tenements of Les Bosquets, a grim housing estate in Montfermeil.
Her neighbours in the 5th arrondissement were aghast. “But you just don’t go to such places,” said one. And by and large, of course, the French - most French - don’t.
Montfermeil is only a short drive out of the centre of Paris. Under the heading “transportation”. Wikipedia says bluntly that there is none, or at any rate no Métro, no RER or surburban trains.
It is one of the places where trouble first erupted in the riots that swept France in autumn 2005 after two boys were electrocuted in a power substation, apparently while running from police, in neighbouring Clichy-sous-Bois.
Lana and I went there to see the mayor, Xavier Lemoine, whose town hall and own home were besieged during the violence of Monday night. He’s the hardliner who tried to counter delinquency by banning teenagers from assembling in groups of more than three.
Anyone who has seen the gangs in action, or come across the results, recognises the problem, whatever differing solutions spring to mind.
One (white) taxi driver told us the present lawlessness was the product of years, maybe decades, of softly-softly policing in which no-go areas were created and all types of authority flouted.
He sounded like a man who might associate Singapore with namby-pamby liberalism, but said he’d settle for American-style zero tolerance and draconian police tactics.
Another cabbie (black, originally from Togo and now living in Clichy) made no excuses for the cowards who had assaulted Lana, but also spoke of the discontent fuelled by rampant racism in French society. “Look at the other taxis,” he said as we drove along the Left Bank quais. “You’ll be hard-pressed to see another black face among the drivers.”
In any event, Lana and I thought our duty as journalists required us to seek the views of not just the mayor but those living in Les Bosquets. I now hear - ironically, given Lemoine’s anti-gang policy (suspended after a legal challenge) - that one of the big news agencies stipulates that staff must work in groups of four in such areas, especially at night.
We were there in the afternoon. We had spoken to people, and Lana had taken photographs, in the dodgiest, most rundown tenement of the complex, all without incident or serious hint of menace.
On our way back to the town centre, Lana wanted – quite unnecessarily, on reflection, considering the images she already had - what photographers call general views, capturing the estate behind a nameplate or a sign urging drivers to look out for the 3,500 children living there.
All was calm. There were lots of cheerful enough Bonjours, no one seemed put out by our presence. Between us, we lowered our guard. I had a doctor’s prescription and there was a pharmacy. I went inside as Lana took one last picture. As she did so, some teenagers appeared at a distant doorway and shouted at her to stop. She was not seeking to photograph them but instantly obeyed, packing camera back into bag.
For some reason, she decided to wait outside the pharmacy rather than join me inside. Suddenly, two, maybe three youths pounced from behind. Before anyone in the shop knew what was happening, the attack was over. In her bag was the brand new – and uninsured - camera, a wallet containing cash and credit cards and, as she realised later to her horror, the keys to her flat.
After the chemist’s staff had patched up Lana, I left her in the safety of a taxi while searching for someone who might mediate with her muggers. It was a long shot; but a young man of north African origin offered to get the camera back - ”probably not the rest” – for 300 euros, including a cut for his troubles.
He claimed to know ces petits noirs who were her likely assailants, but only he could retrieve the gear.
If I’d had the money, I’d have taken the gamble for Lana’s sake. He seemed plausible, even if I guessed the chances of seeing him again, or the camera, wouldn’t be much higher than 10 or 15 per cent. But I’d been more cautious than Lana, and simply wasn’t carrying enough money to interest him. My cards were at home. Lana, by now, had nothing.
The police naturally discouraged any such idea. But one officer, acknowledging the slim prospects of their own inquiries leading very far, agreed that such methods, imperfect and wrong as they are, sometimes brought results.
Lana is left hobbling around her flat, poorer to the tune of more than 5,000 euros (only a small part can be claimed back out of the 1,200 euros she was charged for having her locks changed).
Both of us are angry with ourselves, me in particular for not being with her – however unthreatening things then seemed - when she was attacked. Or for not realising what was going on outside as I stood at the counter.
My presence would not necessarily have saved her possessions, and I am not especially brave or noble. But I am old-fashioned enough to wish that I had been there to take her beating.
* Lana had bought the equipment very shortly before the attack and it was not insured. In the discussion prompted by my initial posting, "Tom" wrote the following:
Why doesn't the newspaper that the journalists were working for, do the right thing and offer to replace the camera of the photographer? And reimburse the expenses? They should be insured, even if the photographer is not.
Adding financial insult to injury, however, my then masters refused to cover Lana's losses, or make the least gesture towards doing so. And up with this I was not prepared to put. With the (private) blessing of my immediate boss, I devised a plan to make "special payments" periodically from petty cash until we had at least come up with a respectable contribution.
As for Lana herself 20 months on, let her explain:
I am attaching the draft press release for the Shootback 10th anniversary exhibition that I am currently organising/curating..if you are back in Paris in May, it would be great if you could come to the opening at agnès b....I am also organising a round table which will be held sometime after the opening - if you know of any journalists in Paris with a particular interest in Kenya/African media/youth and development issues, please let me know.
I unfortunately still have a swelling on my left shin, that after a year and a half, refuses to go away. So I
guess I will always have a physical reminder of our 'outing' together.
Oddly enough, I was just recounting our story to a journalist at RFI who was drawing a vague comparison between the unrest in Kenya and the feelings of frustration and exclusion in the banlieues...
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