My Dad

The author is a French-Algerian dual citizen and former Master’s student at Queen’s University in the Department of Physics. Alongside two brothers, he was raised in France by his dad, an immigrant from Algeria, and his mom, who was born to French parents. The experience of being bi-racial has had a strong influence on his childhood, not only by bearing a foreign name but also by interacting within two worlds that sometimes have trouble understanding each other. He would often hear arguments he couldn’t understand then. He writes about his experience for the first time here, not only believing this story is worth being shared but also as a good exercise on his way to making peace with his dad and with himself. The PGEP publication seemed as an ideal stage for him to tell his story.

I have always wondered if it could have turned out differently, but I don’t think so. Sometimes, resistance is part of who you are. Sometimes dignity has to come first. Can you be Algerian, grow up in Algeria fighting for its independence, and not feel hatred within you? Actually, can you just have grown up in Algeria and not feel such hatred? France has taken so much from you, from your family and your nation. Forgiveness, and reconciliation is the last thing you care about. Of course, my dad didn’t escape that feeling. France is the enemy. You swear when you hear about glorified French heroes, because one who may have brought victory and wealth to France often left behind blood and misery in Algeria. You watch the news on TV hoping for troubles in France, because maybe they would get distracted from interfering with the fate of the Algerian people. My dad’s hatred for France evolved a lot as he grew up, and I believe this hate has always been a driving force for him. One might think that France was my dad’s worst enemy, but it was not; injustice was his worst enemy. There are many things I can hardly stand about my dad, but I cannot help but admire his sense of justice. When he hated, he resisted. Looking back, I realize most of his fights were driven by this feeling of injustice, deeply embedded within him at every level. In ending arguments between me and my brother as young children, I was always the one at fault. But so was my brother. With three noisy boys, my dad still managed to build and foster a just home. And, yet, his greatest exploit was to build a just life. In the world we live in, and his world especially, only God can know how hard it must have been. My dad always loved his country wholeheartedly. Unfortunately, injustice is not a French monopoly. As a child in the 1950s Algerian Béjaïa province, dreaming of a bright future and successful career was a luxury. From a young age, my dad defied the odds; he showed excellent abilities at school and became the first in his family to attend university. There, he took an interest in studying economics. Later, he joined the prestigious National School of Administration in Algiers, which provides training to future senior officials and leaders of Algeria. Flying so close to the top, though, he began to realize all the malfunctions of an elite system supposed to serve his country, a society still scarred by the French colonial system. In that situation, you try to go ahead and act as if you saw nothing, because you are on a bright path that has the potential to lead you to a place so many have dreamt of. It works for a bit, until you are not sure you can stay silent. And you write about it: for yourself first, and for others next. Like my father did, until some powerful people heard about it and decided he had to stop, until these same people banned him from his own country. From the place he loved the most, from all the people he loved, from that bright path he had hesitantly taken steps on. All because he had chosen to fight against a system that shaped the world around him and whose roots were deep, he had everything to lose, and he lost it. The cost of resistance could not be higher.

Funnily enough, my dad chose to make France his new home. Welcome to the beautiful Paris and its golden-paved avenues! I believe his arrival in France was when my dad realized that the world was everything but binary. Speaking French was not the only thing that led him to France; the main reason was this young French woman he had met a few years earlier while travelling. Shock in Bejaïa, Algeria! Betrayal! My dad was about to marry the enemy, a woman whose people caused so much pain to those around him. He must have questioned whether it was right to marry this woman whose only fault was to have been born on the same land as the colonizers. But he did it anyway and never looked back. After he left, the situation in Algeria did not change suddenly. And, of course, he didn’t stop writing. He sometimes used my brother’s name as his pen name to draw attention away from himself. Remembering my brother’s face the day he was told he was the author of a collection of books never fails to put a smile on my face. My dad was away from all the people he had grown up with, his family and friends. He could have stopped writing; it would have been simpler to apologize and beg for re-entrance into Algeria. But resistance is never simple, and it is never the easy way out. Resistance often comes with sacrifices. I can only try to imagine how it must have felt to have been an Algerian immigrant in 1990’s France, where many were still sympathetic to the idea of a colonial Algeria. Once again, my dad defied the odds. After losing every hope of a future in Algeria, he slowly started to build a new life in France. Working hard, he was invited to conferences and radio interviews. Life is so merciful! Despite losing everything, you get an opportunity to start all over again! My dad is Muslim. His experiences living both in colonial Algeria and in France as a Muslim man contributed to his longstanding interest and empathy towards oppressed people. For this reason, he has always been a vocal supporter of Palestine in the Israeli-Palestinian “conflict.” He never understood why it was referred to as a “conflict.” The basic empathy of any human should be enough to understand the misery of an oppressed people. My dad never cries and never shows he is hurt, but his frustration and the pain in his eyes when talking about Palestine are more than enough to convey his agony. I have rarely seen someone who hurts so much from a people’s condition. Like he does with France, he hopes for trouble

in Israel or the USA so that maybe it will alleviate the sufferings of Palestinians. He sometimes tries to mathematically predict the year when Palestine will finally flourish as a nation. My dad’s hopes for Palestine are not always rational. But can you blame him? Can you blame someone who lives with such frustration and hurt, whose life mission is to resist? The French mainstream media narrative is very different from my dad’s on this, however. When invited on the radio and asked his opinion on the Palestinian question, he tried to go back to reason, to explain in simple terms the injustices lived by the Palestinian people every day. Right after the interview, he received a phone call: “do you think we will ever invite you again?” The French mainstream media, just like many elsewhere, is a well-oiled system. If you want to exist, to have a platform, you agree with their version of the story. A bit of xenophobia on top was enough to put an end to my dad’s short rise. He was extremely qualified, an expert in his field of study, but could only find small, low-wage, temporary jobs. With three kids to feed, he didn’t really have a choice. Of course, my dad didn’t lose everything from one radio interview question. But his idea of social justice, his genuineness, and his frankness did not fit in many places. And every time he opened his mouth, he knew exactly what he was doing. I always wonder if his life could have turned out differently. I don’t think I would have had the courage to give up my future for what seems such an unattainable ideal of justice. I try to think of all the things he could have achieved if he hadn’t answered that way during that interview, or if he had not brought up a point that he knew was sensitive, controversial, or provocative in another. He didn’t gain any fame, and no one will remember what he did. He would have had a more successful life had he chosen to shut up when he was asked to, had he not resisted. Maybe he would have even had a happier life. But my dad never cared about these questions; he only did what he knew was right. He sacrificed so much, but dignity had to come first. So many times, I have asked him if he had any regrets. He always stares at me for a few seconds before telling me he never had one. Resistance is full of sacrifices, especially when you are alone. A few years ago, my dad was officially pardoned by the Algerian government. The ban ended and he got a chance to kiss my grandmother for the first time in 20 years. It happened to also be a goodbye as she would pass away shortly after their meeting, as if she had been waiting for him the whole time. I remember my dad coming back home exhausted after a long day of manual work at a factory. I was young at the time, and he looked like any working dad. Looking back, I realize everything he did for us and how he did it without a single complaint. I cannot help but admire him and his journey. I do think my dad has enjoyed his life; a life where standing against injustice led to the greatest sacrifices. He always put his family before anything else: resistance did not take everything from him in the end. I hope that has made him happy. He deserves it.