Asylum Seeker, from Pandora's September Challenge Options

[Guest_Nina_*]

Asylum Seeker

To the blinkered tourist, the 13th arrondisement was just another unknown suburb in Paris, an area barely worth noticing when passing through. This was until events of a summer’s night a few weeks ago placed this area on everyone’s mental atlas.  The day a young African asylum seeker called Zena appeared on network TV channels throughout the world and related her story to the presenter.. She sat in front of a backdrop of the charred ruins of her home, projected onto a screen behind her in the TV studios.  The programme titles rolled, the presenter introduced her and gently led her into her story.

“Do you mind starting by telling me a bit about your childhood”  

Zena looked deep into the camera lens, huge dark eyes welling with tears.  Despite her obvious exhaustion, her beauty shone through. She was tall and slender with deep mahogany skin, hair tightly braided, a delicate face, marred only by a deep tramline scar running from ear to mouth. She began to speak quietly, her voice oddly devoid of emotion.
“I was born in Mauritania into slavery. My parents, grandparents and great-grandparents had all been slaves to the same family and hard manual labour from a very early age, up before dawn till night, was all we knew. The Master was a sadistic, cruel man who inflicted pain with a wooden stick or leather belt whenever he could fabricate an excuse.  With a sneering smile on his face, his arm would strike blow after blow.  One of his favourite punishments was to shut a slave in “the bunker” – a small corrugated, windowless hut – for days, without food or water. The airless putrid smell of stale sweat and urine, the hunger, thirst and total blackness of that hut still haunt my nightmares.  

One night when I was about ten, the Master summoned me to the big house. I was very scared, fearing another punishment, though to my knowledge, I’d done nothing wrong..  Timidly I knocked on the door, totally unaware of what would soon become a regular routine.  The only time I tried to avoid appearing at that hated door, the Master, stormed into our quarters, dragged me from the place where I was trying to hide and marched me up to the house.  As I cowered in front of him, he took hold of an iron poker, red hot from the fire and branded me screaming at me that I was his possession now and no one else would ever want to look at me because I was damaged goods.  How I dreamed of escape but was too terrified of the punishment that would be inflicted on my family if I did.”

Zena paused for a moment, gazing somewhere far beyond the camera.  She caressed the vivid tramline scar with long slim fingers, wiped a few tears from her eyes, then sipping some water from the glass beside her, struggled to regain her composure.

“Would you like to stop for a moment or are you able to continue?”

Zena nodded indicating that she wanted to continue and turned to look at the presenter

“Did something happen to make you change your mind about running away?”

Her voice shaking slightly, fingers fiddling with the fabric of her top, Zena carried on with her story.
“By the time I was fourteen I had borne two children and suffered several miscarriages but saw no escape from my predicament. I merely moved through each day dead inside.  As my daughter reached puberty, I noticed the Master looking at her lustfully. Anger flowed through my veins, jolting me awake. The thought that she would go through what I had experience terrified me, yet I felt powerless to protect her if I remained.  There was no choice. I had  to take the children and escape, no matter how dangerous the risk. It had to be better than staying. I made some tenuous plans for flight, there was no time to waste.  A week later I gathered together our few belongings, some food and water and in the early hours of the morning, long before dawn, we fled.  Another slave, a truly brave and loyal friend, helped us get off the property and he showed me the way to the Senegal river.  The plan was to try and get into Senegal where I had the address of a former slave who ran a refuge for runaways.  Luckily when we reached the river a kindly river man took pity on us and with his help we made it to Senegal and the safe house. Once there, the owner of the house arranged for our passage to France and a new life.”

“How did you feel when you arrived in Paris?”

Thinking for a moment, she laughed then said,
“I had a romantic image of the future and freedom as we flew towards Paris that was quickly shattered. I stepped off the plane, my children beside me, hugging me close.  It was a cold winter’s day.  The sky was the colour of slate and our thin clothes offered no protection from the chilly wind.  Immigration officers escorted us to a small room at the airport where my papers were carefully examined and for hours I was questioned.  By the time they’d finished I was exhausted and the children were tired, cross and hungry.  We were taken to a hostel and hardly noticed or cared what our surroundings were like as we collapsed onto the hard metal beds crammed closely together and fell asleep.”

“Did you stay in the hostel for long?”

“No,” she shook her head, “a week or so later the authorities moved us to the flat in the 13th arrondisement.  It was a seven-floor block and the place was awful.  There was a dark wooden, badly scuffed staircase in the centre of the building from which all the flats were accessed.  Ours was on the second floor and we were expected to share the three rooms with a family of four.  The building was filthy, infested with rats, mice and cockroaches. Walls were cracked and wet to touch, peeling wallpaper revealed black mould underneath, a damp smell permeated throughout the building.  There was little heating and hot water was barely tepid.  The toilet was badly stained and leaked.  Some families had been living there for over ten years waiting for new homes.”

“What was life like once you’d moved there?”

I quickly learned that as African immigrants we were lurking shadows beyond the edge of Parisian society, ignored and forgotten by the government, barely tolerated by the community in which we lived.  My children and I merely existed, barely surviving, living in terrible conditions that made us ill, lacking money and decent food.  I desperately wanted to get a job but unemployment was high and no employer was interested in a young mother who’d had no education and couldn’t read or write.  I knew I had to educate myself if I were to have any hope of a better future, so when the children were at school I took some classes and learnt to read and write which opened a whole new world to me which I could never have imagined.”

“Do you feel up to telling me what happened tonight when the fire started?”

Hands trembling, she looked down for a few seconds, gathering her thoughts, then spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not sure where the fire started.  It was quite late, just after midnight. Tthe children were in bed and I was tidying up.  I smelled burning.  Initially I thought I’d left something on the cooker but quickly realised it was coming from outside the flat.  Opening the front door, a wall of heat hit me. Smoke stung my eyes and made me cough.  Looking down I could see nothing but when I glanced up there were fiercely burning flames, snaking their way down the stairwell towards me. I dashed into the flat screaming, pulled the children out of their beds and dragged them downstairs to safety.  When I dared turn round I could see that the top two floors were completely engulfed in flames.  Terrified faces appeared at the windows, screaming, pleading for help, unable to escape.  One man, desperate to save himself, was climbing onto the narrow window ledge, ready to jump.  Thankfully the fire brigade was able to reach him.  Others weren’t so lucky and plunged to their deaths…”

Zena couldn’t go on, tears streamed down her face as emotion overwhelmed her and she thought of friends who had perished in the fire.

The studio lights dimmed to darkness but Zena’s face remained imprinted on the screen long after it had turned black.

                                                 ***********************

1,450 words
Phrase used: lurking shadows


Notes:  In the early hours of 26 August, fire ripped through a dilapidated Paris apartment block.  The block was home to more than 130 poor immigrant families, including 100 children, mainly from Mali but also Senegal, Ivory Coast and Gambia.  The fire service said that at least 17 people died, 14 of them children and another 23 were taken to hospital, two in a serious condition.

The part about slavery in Mauritania is loosely based on a true story :

http://www.phrusa.org/compendium/index.htm...inata.html~body

Nina

[Cleo_Serapis]

Hi Nina.

I'm so glad to see this story posted here!

I will be back to offer a few sugestions soon.

In the meantime, as I mentioned in Pandora:

This is a very good piece! I commend you and your skills with story-telling.

I could envision your setting in many communities world-wide. As I read your first couple of paragraphs, I thought of the '70s mini-series 'ROOTS' and the way that story played out (true story as well).

Thank you for writing about a topic that most shun.

Your ending really sticks in the mind long after.....

Cheers!
~Cleo

[Guest_Nina_*]

Hi Lori

Thanks for copying your comments over from Pandora's.  I really enjoyed ROOTS when it was on TV and also the book Alex Haley wrote on the subject.  The name Kunta Kinte still sticks in my mind.  It was a very moving fascinating book.

I like to tackle subjects most shun, they are often the most powerful topics to write about.

Your ending really sticks in the mind long after.....

thank you, I was hoping it would have that effect on readers

thank for commenting and I look forward to your suggestions when you have time to consider them.


Nina

[Cleo_Serapis]

Hi Nina.

You know how much I admire this piece aleady and your ending really makes the point clear, "Remember us". Well done!

Here are some ideas for you to ponder...

Cheers!
~Cleo  :pharoah:

[delete] {add} (comment)

The day a young African asylum seeker called Zena appeared on network TV channels throughout the world and related her story to the presenter.. (just one endstop here)

“Do you mind [starting by]telling me a bit about your childhood”  

Zena looked deep into the camera lens, huge dark eyes welling with tears.  Despite her obvious exhaustion, her beauty shone through. She was tall and slender with deep mahogany skin, hair tightly braided, a delicate face, marred only by a deep tramline scar running from ear to mouth. She began to speak quietly, her voice oddly devoid of emotion.

(New paragraph)

“I was born in Mauritania into slavery. My parents, grandparents and great-grandparents had all been slaves to the same family and hard manual labour from a very early age, up before dawn till night, was all we knew. The Master was a sadistic, cruel man who inflicted pain with a wooden stick or leather belt whenever he could fabricate an excuse.  With a sneering smile on his face, his arm would strike blow after blow.  One of his favourite punishments was to shut a slave in “the bunker” – a small corrugated, windowless hut – for days, without food or water. The [airless] putrid smell of stale sweat and urine, the hunger, thirst and total blackness of that hut still haunt [my] {me with} nightmares {to this very day}.  

One night when I was about ten, the Master summoned me to the big house. I was very scared, fearing another punishment, though to my knowledge, I’d done nothing wrong.. (just one endstop here) Timidly{,} I knocked on the door, totally unaware of what would soon become a regular routine.  The only time I tried to avoid appearing at that hated door, the Master, stormed into our quarters, dragged me from the place where I was trying to hide and marched me up to the house.  As I cowered in front of him, he took hold of an iron poker, red hot from the fire and branded me{,} screaming [at me] that I was his possession now and no one else would ever want to look at me because I was damaged goods.  How I dreamed of escape but was too terrified of the punishment that would be inflicted on my family if I did.”

Zena paused for a moment, gazing somewhere far beyond the camera.  (How about reversing the order of this sentence? - Gazing somewhere far beyond the camera, Zena paused for a moment.) She caressed the vivid tramline scar with long slim fingers, wiped a few tears from her eyes, then sipping some water from the glass beside her, struggled to regain her composure.

“Would you like to stop for a moment [or are you able to continue]?” (assumed if ‘no’ she could continue)

Zena nodded [indicating that she wanted to continue] {in the affirmative} [and turned to look at the presenter]{.}

Her voice shaking slightly, fingers fiddling with the fabric of her top, Zena carried on with her story. (same paragraph) “By the time I was fourteen I had borne two children and suffered several miscarriages but saw no escape from my predicament.

Thinking for a moment, she laughed then said, (same patagraph) “I had a romantic image of the future and freedom as we flew towards Paris that was quickly shattered. I stepped off the plane, my children beside me, hugging me close.  It was a cold winter’s day.  

“No,” she shook her head, “a (capital A) week or so later the authorities moved us to the flat in the 13th arrondisement.  

Hands trembling, she looked down for a few seconds, gathering her thoughts, then spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. (same paragraph) “I’m not sure where the fire started.  It was quite late, just after midnight. Tthe children were in bed and I was tidying up.  I smelled burning.  Initially I thought I’d left something on the cooker but quickly realised it was coming from outside the flat.  

The studio lights dimmed to darkness but Zena’s face remained{,} imprinted on the screen long after it had turned black.

[Guest_Nina_*]

Hi Lori

Thanks so much for your suggestions.  I'll have a thorough look through tomorrow when I am less tired.

Nina

[Guest_Nina_*]

Hi Lori

Thanks for taking the time to go through this story.  I like your suggestions and will probably incorporate most of them when I make revisions.

Nina

[Guest_Toumai_*]

Hi Nina

I missed this! I must have seen it in 'latest posts' and read the word 'Pandora' in the subtitle and not noticed the forum. (Of course, I ought to read all the fab Pandora entries - but there just are not enough hours in the day to ever get to everything.)  

I think this is a very strong story, which really wrenches the heart, but I can see a pitfall:  Zena is so eloquent; what language is she speaking in? Is French a language she would be so familiar with, especially while interviewed on tv? I think a sentance explaining that she is being translated (or French was always spoken by the slaves) would make me feel more comfortable that this is her voice.

I shall have to return for a more detailed crit another time, as I have a housefull of small sprogs well past their bed times eating a 'midnight feast' (it's 8.45 pm, lol) ... must get them to bed (and serious teeth-cleaning is in order).

Fran

[Guest_Nina_*]

Hi Fran

Thanks for taking the time  and managing to escape from the gaggle of girls long enough to read this.

I think this is a very strong story, which really wrenches the heart, but I can see a pitfall:  Zena is so eloquent; what language is she speaking in? Is French a language she would be so familiar with, especially while interviewed on tv? I think a sentance explaining that she is being translated (or French was always spoken by the slaves) would make me feel more comfortable that this is her voice.

I wondered if anyone would ask this question. I did think about it before writing the story and did a google search.  Mauritania gained independence from France in 1960  Arabic is the official language but French is also spoken.  The official language of neighbouring Senegal where she fled to is French and she lived close to the border.  I envisioned her being French speakingand as I mentioned in the story, she went to classes and learned to read and write which opened the world of books and reading to her.  I deliberately portrayed her as intelligent and eloquent to make a point.

Thanks for this

Nina

[Guest_ZaoShang_*]

That was a powerful and well-written story. The way you have conveyed emotion is great.

Here are my two-pence comments; please ignore them if you feel they are not helping you.

For some reason, I think I'd prefer to find out about the fire only at the end of the story. So my suggestion is to avoid mentioning 'charred ruins' at the beginning.

the presenter introduced her and gently led her into her story.

- I think that's redundant; we hear the presenter 'leading her into the story' anyway.

I too felt Zena's speech is a bit too fluent. Perhaps if Zena used more simple and shorter phrases her discourse would sound more realistic. As that was a live interview, I expected the presenter to help Zena more often by asking questions from time to time.

Again, I may be subjective. Zena's description of the place in the seven-floor block sounds as if made from the viewpoint of someone used to a comfortable place in a civilised country. For a woman who has lived all her life in slavery in Mauritania, her frustration isn't very believable. Filthy and smelly, that place must still have been a palace compared to what she had been used to.

Some quick-fixes:

I made some tenuous plans for flight, there was no time to waste.

-I'd say a semicolon would go better here than a comma

I had a romantic image of the future and freedom as we flew towards Paris that was quickly shattered.

-a semicolon or a full stop may be needed after 'Paris'

Good luck!

[Guest_Nina_*]

Hi Marius

Good to see you on MM again and thanks for popping in here to read and comment.  You make some interesting points which I need to think about and consider carefully.

Thanks very much for your suggestions.

Nina

[Guest_Jox_*]

Hi Nina,

This is the piece I meant to crit ages ago. I'm so sorry - quite out of kilter - will be back and if I forget do please remind me. Note to self: delete oven chips but buy more memory chips...

J.

[Guest_Nina_*]

Hi J

No problem, I'll remind you if you forget.  Tie a knot in your hankie.

Nina