Sans-Papiers Under Pressure

Expats tend to get a big kick out of comparing the US and France, pointing out as many differences as possible (and we're no exceptions). But sometimes it's the similarities that are most jarring.

All the debate and tension over Arizona's new immigration law reminds me of something I saw right after my pilgrimage to Lully's grave. Leaving the Notre-Dame-des-Victoires church through a side door, I unexpectedly found myself in the courtyard of the Mairie of the 2nd arrondissement. There, I was confronted with a stark reminder of the stories behind immigration, and the often tragic implications of deportation: Carole Achache's exhibition "Cent papiers" may have only run from April 19 to May 6, but its message was timeless.

To illustrate the complexity of the sans-papiers situation, Achache photographed the hands of immigrants alongside the reams of documentation they need to complete in order to become legal - thus the "cent papiers" (100 papers) pun that gives the exhibition its title.

Beneath the photographs, we read the following captions:

"Her father was arrested in the métro station at Gare d'Austerlitz. He's been imprisoned in a detention center for five days. She's three years old. (top left)

Fled a country in civil war with her eight-year-old daughter. Legalized entry and political exile refused. (top right)

He has lived in France since 1989. He works and pays taxes. He has never been granted legal status. He came for his son, who will soon be 18. (bottom left) 

There, she worked starting at age ten. She lost two fingers doing that work. Here, she continues to be exploited even though she's still a minor." (bottom right)

There were 48 of these pictures with captions, and the ensemble quietly radiated both strength and desperation.

The text below the pictures reads:

"All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and in rights, except the others. They came to France because they wanted to live normally. They were hungry, or they fled wars. Others came to be with a spouse. They arrived in the country of Voltaire. They came to work, and to pay taxes.

Are they pests? Are there two kinds of humans? The first kind to which we belong by randomly being born into a certain nationality, giving us all the rights normally accorded to human beings? And the second kind, foreigners, whom, we decide, do not merit certain rights?

 Who are we to judge others, condemning them for having become sans-papiers?"

I appreciated Achache's photographs and her text. But I would have done something slightly different to point out the inherently fallacious nature of the entire sans-papier/illegal immigration issue. I would have included pictures of sans-papiers who are at little-to-no-risk of being arrested and deported. And the first photograph I would have shown?

Yeah, that's right. Remember when I lost my passport? And then got a new one? Once I had a new passport, even with my old passport in my possession, the titre de séjour I had worked so hard to acquire became obsolete. That meant that from April 21 through June 2, I was in the country illegally. And we knew tons of other Americans who were every bit as much sans-papiers as the people Achache photographed. At least the French are somewhat self-conscious about the basic issue at hand, given Sarkozy's attempt to launch a debate on national identity before the recent regional elections. In the US, we're a little more shy to admit that it's about race and class, not whether you have papers or entered the country "legally." As the controversial new law in Arizona brings this uncomfortable truth to the fore, we need more Carole Achaches to teach us about dignity, respect, and listening before judging.

Secrets of the Second Arrondissement

This one's for the musicologists.

Next to the Mairie (town hall) of the 2nd arrondissement, you'll find a fairly unobtrusive, run-of-the-mill Baroque church called Notre-Dame-des-Victoires.

It's not the most interesting of churches, even for enthusiasts. Constructed between 1629 and 1737 by Augustinian monks, the church offers fairly standard Baroque architecture, excepting the transept's spherical roof. And the only non-architectural feature deemed worthy of mention in the Wikipedia article on the church are the thousands of ex voto offerings plastered to its walls - basically a bunch of plaques expressing gratitude for the fulfillment of some prayer.


But a stroll through the aisles reveals that the church has another claim to fame.

Uncharacteristically, one of the aisle arches is squared off by a wood piece (seen above), from which protrudes a bust.

The bust looked familiar enough to me that I made an effort to read the Latin text etched in stone on the underside of the wood piece.

My Latin isn't so good, but the only two words I needed to see were "mors" and "Lullius" to know that this plaque - and the bust above it - mark the grave of Giovanni-Baptista Lulli, aka Jean-Baptiste Lully, aka the man generally credited with inventing French opera. (If anyone can fully translate this epitaph, I'd be grateful.)

Lully (1632-87) came to France from Florence in the mid-17th century and soon became Louis XIV's unofficial "Minister of Music." He conducted the King's orchestra, composed and performed in ballets, collaborated with Molière, and became the second director of the Paris Opéra. Lully died when, after striking his foot with the massive staff then used to keep time during musical performances, he contracted gangrene and refused amputation. Nice.

I'm probably biased, but I feel like there should be more of a to-do around Lully's grave. After all, there are maps of the Paris graves of other celebrities (Jim Morrison owes a lot to Lully, right?). On the other hand, I liked finding this unassuming, nearly unmarked monument on my own. Hopefully this post won't spoil what currently seems like one of many well-kept secrets of the Second Arrondissement.