Description
We are the children of transit cities, arriving without informing anyone. Hundreds of us arrived on the ship of heaven, waiting for the moon to set before disembarking its passengers, who have no papers. We found ourselves living here with half-human faces, speaking a half-civilized language, with half-French customs and manners. We are here to ask why we are here and what we still have to do to stay. What country is my country? Is it my father’s? Is it the country of my childhood? Do I have the right to a homeland? Sometimes I take out my identity card—no, they say national identity card—and at the top, in capital letters, is written “The French Republic”—I am a daughter of this republic. Name, surname, born on such and such a date in such and such a place, height, distinguishing marks, residence. Written on such and such a date by so-and-so, signature of the rightful owner, distinguishing marks. Does this mean I am nobody? Not even a rebellious or angry Arab expatriate? With this cry, Benjelloun reaffirms the racism and chauvinism of the civilized West against Arab immigrants, whom it still considers third-class citizens, if it even recognizes their citizenship at all. This is a line Ben Jelloun has consistently followed, emphasizing that there is neither justice nor equality in the relationship between our East and their West. He undoubtedly presents us with an important portrait that dispels the illusion of the paradise of immigration that has long captivated the imaginations of young Arabs in this era.
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