‘When independence came, times were hard, everyone was poor, people were sleeping in the streets while our leaders were feasting in the palaces left by the colonists and killing each other over who should take power. Your father and Uncle Ali were disgusted by what was happening. Ali came to France, he couldn’t bear it. As soon as he found a job, he went back and asked for my hand, and I came back to France with him. Allah has watched over us, we have never wanted for anything.’

‘What about Papa?’

‘He had problems with the new leaders, I know that. There were people who wanted him to leave Algeria – they threatened to kill him. But there were many people who wanted him to stay so he could go on training army officers.’

‘Why did some people hate him?’

‘I don’t know. Your uncle would have been able to tell you, but the poor man is not himself any more. I do know that he hid your father for many months in our village in Kabylia. Later, after we left for France, your papa went into hiding in Aïn Deb with a friend from the maquis. Tahar, his name was, he was your uncle. Your father married his sister Aïcha. Tahar died long ago, before you and your brother were even born.’

‘Why did Papa never come to France?’

‘I don’t know, walidi. He had fought the French in the war back when he lived in Germany, and when he came to Algeria he was afraid he might be arrested.’

‘But Uncle Ali fought against the French, and he came to live here, and he never had any problems.’

‘Well, I’m sure your father had his reasons, but I don’t know what they were.’

‘Why did he send us here to live with you in France, why didn’t he want us to stay with him and Maman? I mean, is that normal?’

‘Don’t judge your father, he was thinking of you, of your future, he wanted you to study, to be successful, to live in peace. Why are you asking me all these questions?’

‘No reason, am’ti . . . no reason.’

‘You’re not well, walidi, ever since your brother died, you haven’t been the same. You are not happy, you spend too much time thinking. But it will pass, you are young, Allah watches over you.’

That night I slept like a baby It was the first time in a long time.

Rachel’s Diary - March 1995

Rachel’s Diary

March 1995