le squat
Tours is the first place I have
ever been where I felt that punk and anarchy is still alive. Here it is more
than just a scene, more than just words. You can feel it, you can hear it in
the night sounds, and there is a certain energy that comes from the winding,
cobble-stoned streets. Mohawks and dreadlocks are more than just fashion here,
and spikes and chains often prove useful instead of cumbersome; as do the faded
army fatigues and worn combat boots, when the winter winds and rain arrive.
These punks not only talk and break
things in the name of Anarchy and Rebellion, but they also do and change
things in the name of Revolution and Reform. Not only are they tearing down the
walls, but they are building new ones as well. And it's working. There is still
a long way to go, but here they have chiseled out a place for themselves in the
pavement of beurocracy. Here, they have made some progress, and here, their
message still has a chance.
*
* * * *
I became acquainted with the
members of the squat early Friday morning. I was to spend four days with them -
until early Monday morning, but the days ran together and there was little
sleep, so it seemed to me that it could have well been a week or more.
I met Vince on Rue Nationale,
about a block away from the Place de la Résistance. He was dressed (as
he would be for entire time I was to know him) in stained and muddied khaki
cargo pants, a dingy red sweater adorned with countless bottle tops and safety
pins, and a gray-brown hooded jacket that could have once belonged to a personne
agée at the local foyer. He was seated on the stoop of an
inconspicuous apartment building, and at his feet a metal zigzag tin waited,
half filled with various copper pieces and only a few, slightly more valuable,
golden ones. "Do you have any petites pieces, for something to
eat?" He asked me. He had not singled me out, for I was dressed no better
than he, yet no one who passed was spared the question. Unfortunately, I had
nothing to give, for I was myself looking for a place to faire la manche.
He then asked for a cigarette in place, and this, yes, I had. So I stopped and
waited while he rolled himself one and gave him a bit more tobacco to keep for
later. He directed me to an alimentation, a little store around the
corner, where he said I might have good luck looking for some money.
We parted, and I headed to where he
had indicated. I sat in front of the little shop, and after about thirty
minutes without much luck, I was about to give up and look for some better
location where more people were passing. It was then that as saw him
approaching again. He was surprised that I had actually heeded his advice, and
also still grateful for the tobacco I had bestowed him, a welcome generosity,
he said. I asked him how he had fared, and he showed me the money he had
collected. Not much, but surely better than the three copper pieces I had in my
upturned hat. When he saw this, he laughed, and said we would continue to work ensemble
until we had enough to buy something to eat. "In Tours, you have to ask
for what you need. If you don't ask, no one will give, but if you do more
people will help."
After another half-hour, we had
collected nearly ten dollars, he having done most of the "work". We
found some baguettes, cheese, and wine, and headed to the river to eat.
*
On the quay, we found a little
shack propped up on two poles between the bushes. It was here, he said, that
his friends would come. Here, because there is shelter from the rain, and here
because there is a water faucet, which he showed me, hidden in the fallen
leaves. We ate, and soon, his friends did arrive: Three of them, in fatigues
and combat boots, trailed by four dogs. Introductions were made, though
apparently none were needed, for by the time they were over a joint was being rolled,
and bottles passed.
Cédéric told me of the squat: An
abandoned house, in Vieux Tours, the old city, which had burned. After
the fire, no one returned, and it had fallen into disrepair and been forgotten
long ago. He found it, moved in with Julie, and began the squat there. That was
six months ago, and in six more, if it remained occupied by members of the
squat, it would become theirs.
He was tall and skinny, his face
pierced, and all that was left of his blonde hair was a thin strip across the
top, spiked with egg yolks into a mohawk. He wore nearly the same grayish green
army jacket as Julie, patches and graffiti on the back, and spikes on the
collar. Julie had painted her coat with die and wax, the pack bearing the
inscription "Punk is dead." Underneath, a gravestone, marked R.I.P
and the date 02.03.83, the day her father died she said, when she was two. She
smiled beautifully beneath the dirt and fatigue, and when she did the scar on
her left cheek quivered, and her crooked bottom tooth crept out just enough
from behind her lips. Somehow, though these imperfections only added to her
strange lure; dingy and pierced, yet when she glared out from beneath her
filthy, studded baseball cap, one saw no malice. Despite her appearance, I saw
her as calm and comforting, and most of all - kind.
She and Cédéric had a strange kind
of love. For two people who, by outward appearances would have seemed so tough,
grungy, or even angry or mean, together they were like two puppies. One minute
they would be cuddling and cooing, and the next wrestling and screaming. They
would make fun of each other, but in a lighthearted way, and then laugh and
kiss after. Julie would pet him and with a smirk ask if he would like her to
open another beer for him. He would say yes, ma chérie, never forget to
say please, and then give her the first sip. She'd begin to down the whole can
at once, and when he would realize it, he'd chase after her, cursing, but with
a smile, and she knew he meant all his vulgarities in the sweetest of ways. It
was always Jean who had to finally pull them apart from each other when they
finally ended up on the ground, biting and scratching.
Jean, the third of the party, was
the oldest, if only in body and not in spirit. He was born two years before
Cédéric and Julie, and five before Vince, who was twenty. Though he was born
earlier, his visage bore the inscription of a child. His eyes shone, and in the
corners, tiny lines dispersed, like sunbeams - the residue from many smiles. He
spoke slowly and decidedly, and often referred to us as les enfants,
though I'm not sure if even he believed he was actually any older than us. Jean
had come to the squat in much the same way I had. He had shown up in Tours one
day by chance, knowing no one, and met Cédéric and Julie who had taken him in
and immediately made him part of the family. He had been there now for four
months.
I learned quickly how things worked
with the group. Each had nothing, but together they had everything they needed.
It was never a question of who had more (weather it be food or drugs), because
there was always enough. No one asked what work was to be done, because
everyone did something. If one person wanted something, even if solely for
himself, the others were quick to empty their own pockets of whatever monnaie
there was to be found. I would be sleeping in the squat tonight, though I had
never asked. I would also eat with them and smoke at my pleasure for the next
four days. C'est normal, I was told, and they never asked of me anything
other than what I would give of my own accord.
*
That night, I was to learn the
meaning of le bordel. They had been talking, planning the night, and
mentioned it, a word I didn't understand. When I asked, they only laughed, and
said ce soir.
Jean had left. He did most of the
"business transactions" - bought drugs and ran errands for the group
with the money Cédéric had collected from the members of the squat. Each day, I
was told, between the four of them, they normally collected about €80-100 in
small change, which they traded for bills at the supermarket. This money went
to everything, including clothes, food, medicine, and tonight, drugs. It was
Friday, and tonight they were making a fête. Not just any fête,
but a party with all of Tours.
We walked the darkened streets of Vieux
Tours, and little by little, the alleyways and squares began to full with
people. Punk and vagrants from all over the city arrived, and soon I was
beginning to understand le bordel. There were people under every
lamppost and in every corner, some with bottles and some releasing huge columns
of fragrant blue smoke into the air. I wondered how it was possible; I had
never seen anything like it. I couldn't imagine how the police would not break
this up. There were tourists and residents caught in the middle of it all, and
I thought for sure eventually the party would have to end. They did come once,
though it did little good. Vince turned to me and said, "Merde, les
flics, let's go around the corner" So we did, and the crowd disbanded,
but we simply walked around the block, and before we had returned to the
square, the party had continued. The punk and street scene is just too strong
here for the police to really do anything about it. They make their rounds, and
try to keep relative order, but here they truly have little power.
Jean returned, and with him he had
brought a rather large quantity of ecstasy, some mushrooms, and, he told me
secretly, la blanche. The ecstasy and mushrooms were passed around for
whom wanted, and no one was asked for any money in return. Now, le bordel
would really begin.
That night became somewhat of a
blur. I need not recount in detail what exactly took place, nor do I wish to.
It is not important to this story, and will only incriminate me further. I will
say however (to sum it up) that some time after 04h30 or so, I found myself in
the basement of a half-timbered house from the sixteenth century, where I had
my first experience with la blanche. Also, towards 06h45 we were
confronted again by the police, who pretended to search us, yet amazingly found
nothing, and ever so graciously asked us to return home. "The sun will be
rising soon, and the street needs to be cleaned… we don't want any problems,
that's all." So, we finally returned to the shelter of the squat to rest, though
not before another liter of wine and lively game of chess would we sleep. The
sun was already above the horizon when I would finally put my head to the
pillow.
*
The next day began much sooner than
I would have wished it. It wasn't much after eleven when the first people in
the squat were stirring. Though there were only four main members, the squat
was always open to anyone who needed a place to sleep, and at some times there
were up to eight or ten people present. The house that was squatted was very
large, located on the west end of the old city, and had once belonged to a
lawyer, a fact that Cédéric was especially proud of. The west half had burned,
and was mostly destroyed, but two large rooms towards the back had been
cleaned, and were the ones occupied. One room was designated for sleeping (one
of only three rules spray-painted on the wall: "Respectez l'homme qui
dort."), and the other for cooking, eating, smoking, and whatever
else.
When I woke up, Julie was cooking pâté.
When she offered me some, I tried to decline, but it was no use. "You have
to eat, you didn't eat last night. Don't be shy here, if you are hungry, eat.
If you are thirsty, there is wine on the table. Make yourself comfortable, we
are your family." Like a mother, she was always concerned with people
eating enough, being warm, feeling comfortable and wanted. I ate a bit of it,
with some bread. The warm food really did feel wonderful in my stomach, and
made me realize how such simple things can sometimes be very satisfying. It wasn't
gourmet, but it was enough. "Pâté, it's not my favorite, but when
you're hungry, you're hungry," She said. And she was right. At the squat,
one certainly did not live luxuriously, but one lived freely, and to them
that's what was important.
Cédéric and Julie stayed in the
squat most of the day cleaning, and arranging a loft in the bedroom with some
wooden palettes and new mattresses they had found. Vincent, Jean, and I went
out to make some money, and returned to the usual spot on Rue Nationale.
Throughout the day people I had met from the night before would stop by, and
talk for a few minutes, passing bottles, or a joint. I noticed that money was
rarely ever used, if even talked of. It was there to use to buy things from the
stores, when necessary, but amongst us or with other people in the street, it
wasn't important. (Vince told me that as a rule, they never steal. They would
rather ask for money, and use it only when necessary. Everything else they
relied on being able to find in the trash, or associations like Croix Rouge
which gives food and clothes to the homeless.)
After a few hours, when we had made
a sufficient about of money, we returned to the squat. It had been thoroughly
cleaned and well arranged by the others, who had fallen asleep, wrapped in each
other's arms. Vince dropped the money in a jar by the door when he walked in,
without ever counting it. It wasn't important how much was there, for it was
enough for some food for all, and that's all that mattered. If one were to need
some later, it would be no problem to take what he needed from the jar at that
time; there was no need to hold on a little bit, or stash it away as may be
expected. Some had cleaned, some had found a bit of money, and in the end,
though no one was told what to do, everything had been done. No one thought
about who had done more, or worked harder, or who had not really done anything
at all. They were all together, and everything had been done for all.
*
That night, as Vince and I were
leaving the squat, a man carrying a few boxes of pizza was passing by. He was
on the opposite side of the street from us, and we had opened the old, faded
door of the squat just as he walked by. My stomach growled, and I thought about
how much I would like a pizza right then. Suddenly, as if he had heard my
thoughts, he turned to us and asked if we would like something to eat. Of
coarse we would! We had not eaten much all day, and nothing since the morning.
"Tiens, vas-y. Go ahead, squat. I support what you are doing. You
have to break down the system and take back what the government has taken from
us. Here you go, eat well, and stay warm. Vas-y, faites le squat!"
Yet again, I was surprised by the
place Anarchy has made for itself here. This man was a normal looking,
middle-aged guy, dressed in a suit and probably on his way home from work.
Though he himself did not lead the same lifestyle as those in the city who
chose to squat or live in the streets, he respected their choices. In this
case, he supported the message they were making by squatting. France has a
severe housing shortage, yet many abandoned buildings remain empty due to
beurocracy and the stinginess of the upper class. Squatting reclaims at least a
small piece of that which is lost, and thus is widely socially acceptable, if
not always completely legal.
*
The rest of the weekend continued
to pass in much the same way. There was always plenty to smoke, and one was
rarely without a drink in his hand. Many times I would try to turn down a
drink, but every time it was impossible. "Ici, on est toujours féstive,"
they would say, "Faites la fête, faites le bordel!"
But I simply didn't have the
habitude. I couldn't keep up, nor did I want to. I needed a break, some time
alone, and some time to recover. Jean was leaving Sunday night to visit a
friend who had an apartment outside of Bordeaux. I decided I would leave with
him, as I had planned to meet a friend there later in the week. "Better to
take the train ensemble anyway." He said. "Then at least we
can drink, and pass the time quicker." Jean was going alone to visit his
friend, but his train ticket had been paid for with the collective money of the
squat. Once again, no one complained that it was more than his share. Here lies
just another example of the unselfishness, and true sense of one for all, and
all for one that they felt. One day, perhaps someone else would need to
somewhere, and money would be collected for him as well.
It was cold that day, the sky grey
and misty. We sat on Rue Nationale, with the little tin of coins in
front of us, but out of the few people who were passing on a dismal Sunday
afternoon, even fewer were charitable. Jean said it was the weather. "Some
days, if the weather's bad enough, you don't eat. Other times though, when it's
good, the people feel really generous, and you eat like a king." Living
like they did meant relying heavily on external factors, generosity, and even
luck. It meant having to get though a few really miserable days, but also not
worrying, because they never doubt that the next good day will come.
As he was telling me this, he had
counted the change in the tin and decided we had enough for some bread. At
least it would be something to put in our stomachs. We entered the boulangerie
and began to count our change, mostly copper pieces, and asked for two
baguettes. Upon seeing that we had little money, and were obviously wet and a
little cold, the woman working there pushed the money back across the counter.
"C'est pas grave, don't worry about it." She handed us the two
baguettes and after thanking her enthusiastically were about to walk out the
door. "Would you perhaps like another, peut-être?" She called
after us. Yes of coarse we would! We hadn't eaten all day. "Well then,
here take this, and maybe a pizza, un pour chacun." We talked as
she warmed two pieces of pizza for us, and told her of the squat and explained
how when the weather is bad, it can be very hard. She listened and smiled, told
us to stay warm, and slipped a large sandwich in the bag with the other goodies
without saying a word.
We boarded the train that night
with full stomachs and two bottles of rouge. We had said our goodbyes to
the other members of the squat, Jean for a week, and I forever. Though they had
known me only a few days, I felt nearly at home there, if however, in a strange
way. They had accepted me wholeheartedly, and if I wanted to stay one day or a
hundred, it would have been okay. I felt maybe one day I could return there,
but really I knew it wouldn't be necessary. They had shown me what I needed to
know; that living outside the boundaries of standard society really was
possible, and it could work. They had given me the power and confidence to live
my own life in accord to what I wanted.
Jean and I passed the bottle and
talked throughout the hour-long ride to Orléans. From there we changed trains
for another, heading south through the night. I was glad I was able to spend
some time alone with Jean on the train. The solitude (and the vin)
loosened his lips and he told many stories, of his childhood, the places he has
lived, and his ideals and philosophy on living the way he does. Much of what he
said mirrored my own ideas. Surprisingly, so it seemed, what he said also
mirrored many other people's as well, though I suppose it just translates a
little different. When it comes down to it, everyone wants mostly the same
things in life, but how far are they willing to go to get it? For Jean and the
others at the squat, freedom is the ultimate priority. That includes freedom
from working for someone else and freedom from unnecessary material objects.
When the wine had run out, sleep
took us; each one satisfied with what he had learned of the other. Early the
next morning, I was pulled awake with a start. "Vas-y, vite!"
We had come to where our paths would separate and Jean had only a few minutes
to catch the bus. We shook hands, and he left. There was nothing to say; each
knew that which words could not express. I was left suddenly alone on the
platform. Weary and groggy-eyed I looked to the departure board for the next train
to Bordeaux.
