motions that have become familiar to me. I put my jacket on, take my bag, and go out without a glance at my work.
At the foot of our tower, I stop for the first time in front of the stone slab embedded in the ground. My sister’s name is engraved on it. I’ve always refused to stop and look at it. I know that it had to be cleaned two or three times, when red spray paint was used to sully it with slurs like BITCH and WHORE . I don’t know who took care of the cleanup. Djelila’s friends, maybe. That’s definitely possible.
This slab is only a slab. Djelila’s body is at the cemetery. Buried with an unmarked headstone. And Dad pretends your soul is in Algeria. You, who were so French. Maybe he’s right.
The tags that drip down the facade of Tower 38 have not been painted over, but since Majid’s arrest, neither Brahim nor Youssef, nor anyone else, hangs out there.
Today is Wednesday. Children are playing in the square. I can hear their shouts and their laughter. I imagine mothers seated on the benches, watching them. Taïeb and Idriss are at an after-school program.
I walk across the projects. I have not boarded a bus for ages.
I walk slowly, letting the sun warm my cheeks. It’s a pleasant feeling. Do I have the right to enjoy this warmth knowing you are dead and will never feel anything again? I inhale deeply. The air smells of dust and exhaust fumes. Just like always.
What I see first is your name. It’s written in bold letters on a small poster taped to a streetlamp pole. DJELILA . I stop without thinking and read:
FOR YOU, DJELILA
Wednesday, November 15, at 2.30 p.m.,
at the Community Center, 25, rue du Portugal
Discussion about the death of Djelila Chebli
Victim of violence in projects
Numerous people will talk
My watch says it’s ten past three. The community center is two steps away, at the end of the blacktop alley. I can see the building, its metallic structure adorned with glass. Modern and sleek. There is no hurry for me to register for exams. I can do that tomorrow or even next week.
I don’t know if it’s curiosity, the desire to hear people talk about my sister, or an unhealthy motivation that pushes me in the direction of the center, but I am soon in front of its main door.
I open it. In the hall, a woman behind a desk is writing in a large notebook. I go up to her.
“Excuse me.”
The woman raises her head.
“I’m looking for the room where the discussion about Djelila Chebli is taking place,” I tell her.
“In the corridor. The first one. The blue door on your right.”
“Thank you.”
“But it started a while ago.”
I do not reply. I make my way to the room and knock on the door. No answer. I can hear a woman’s voice.
I walk in noiselessly. Fortunately, the door opens at the rear of the room, so I’m not too conspicuous. A few faces turn to observe me. Some twenty people are seated in rows of chairs. There are only two men—no, three. I sit down. A woman turns toward me, then leans to her neighbor and whispers a few words in her ear. The other woman looks at me too. I try not to pay attention. Behind a large table, a short-haired woman speaks into a microphone. I don’t understand what she’s saying. It’s not that she doesn’t speak clearly, but I have a hard time concentrating. I distinguish words like “sociologist,” “uneasiness in the suburbs,” and “rise of Islam.” I need to scratch my neck. I feel like I’m sweating and yet it’s pretty cold in the room.
I breathe slowly and try to focus on the words of the speaker.
People in the first row become agitated. There are whispers. Up at the microphone, the sociologist stops speaking.
A tall woman gets up and comes toward me.
Does she recognize me? Is she going to ask me to talk and give my opinion on the tragedy? No, it’s not possible that anyone knows who I am. How could they recognize me? Was there ever a picture of me in the newspaper at the time of the funeral?
Panic takes hold of me.
At the foot of our tower, I stop for the first time in front of the stone slab embedded in the ground. My sister’s name is engraved on it. I’ve always refused to stop and look at it. I know that it had to be cleaned two or three times, when red spray paint was used to sully it with slurs like BITCH and WHORE . I don’t know who took care of the cleanup. Djelila’s friends, maybe. That’s definitely possible.
This slab is only a slab. Djelila’s body is at the cemetery. Buried with an unmarked headstone. And Dad pretends your soul is in Algeria. You, who were so French. Maybe he’s right.
The tags that drip down the facade of Tower 38 have not been painted over, but since Majid’s arrest, neither Brahim nor Youssef, nor anyone else, hangs out there.
Today is Wednesday. Children are playing in the square. I can hear their shouts and their laughter. I imagine mothers seated on the benches, watching them. Taïeb and Idriss are at an after-school program.
I walk across the projects. I have not boarded a bus for ages.
I walk slowly, letting the sun warm my cheeks. It’s a pleasant feeling. Do I have the right to enjoy this warmth knowing you are dead and will never feel anything again? I inhale deeply. The air smells of dust and exhaust fumes. Just like always.
What I see first is your name. It’s written in bold letters on a small poster taped to a streetlamp pole. DJELILA . I stop without thinking and read:
FOR YOU, DJELILA
Wednesday, November 15, at 2.30 p.m.,
at the Community Center, 25, rue du Portugal
Discussion about the death of Djelila Chebli
Victim of violence in projects
Numerous people will talk
My watch says it’s ten past three. The community center is two steps away, at the end of the blacktop alley. I can see the building, its metallic structure adorned with glass. Modern and sleek. There is no hurry for me to register for exams. I can do that tomorrow or even next week.
I don’t know if it’s curiosity, the desire to hear people talk about my sister, or an unhealthy motivation that pushes me in the direction of the center, but I am soon in front of its main door.
I open it. In the hall, a woman behind a desk is writing in a large notebook. I go up to her.
“Excuse me.”
The woman raises her head.
“I’m looking for the room where the discussion about Djelila Chebli is taking place,” I tell her.
“In the corridor. The first one. The blue door on your right.”
“Thank you.”
“But it started a while ago.”
I do not reply. I make my way to the room and knock on the door. No answer. I can hear a woman’s voice.
I walk in noiselessly. Fortunately, the door opens at the rear of the room, so I’m not too conspicuous. A few faces turn to observe me. Some twenty people are seated in rows of chairs. There are only two men—no, three. I sit down. A woman turns toward me, then leans to her neighbor and whispers a few words in her ear. The other woman looks at me too. I try not to pay attention. Behind a large table, a short-haired woman speaks into a microphone. I don’t understand what she’s saying. It’s not that she doesn’t speak clearly, but I have a hard time concentrating. I distinguish words like “sociologist,” “uneasiness in the suburbs,” and “rise of Islam.” I need to scratch my neck. I feel like I’m sweating and yet it’s pretty cold in the room.
I breathe slowly and try to focus on the words of the speaker.
People in the first row become agitated. There are whispers. Up at the microphone, the sociologist stops speaking.
A tall woman gets up and comes toward me.
Does she recognize me? Is she going to ask me to talk and give my opinion on the tragedy? No, it’s not possible that anyone knows who I am. How could they recognize me? Was there ever a picture of me in the newspaper at the time of the funeral?
Panic takes hold of me.
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