This is no time to get spooked, I thought, in a couple of hours I’m flying off to a country where there’s a real war on, where no one can be sure they’ll make it through the day alive. Fuck sake, I grew up on the H24 estate, I’ve seen enough to take on the Devil himself! But every time I managed to calm myself down, it started all over again. I’d read a bit, turn off the light, stare at the ceiling, determined not to think about anything. I’d try to think of the best way of not thinking about things and suddenly all the same thoughts would come flooding back. Suddenly I’m drugged and thrown into that stadium with the same zombies still chanting my name. It’s a vicious circle. In the end, I got up, pushed the suitcase under the bed, sat on the floor next to the window with my back to the wall and kept watch until morning. I didn’t feel safe until I heard the usual racket of the town blocks. It was four in the morning, the old African men in their Turkish slippers were getting ready for their daily migration across the savannah, the faithful were feverishly performing Wudu – their ritual ablutions – and every kid on the state, ripped suddenly from their nightmares, was screaming loud enough to burst a deaf man’s eardrum. Then all the TVs and the radios came on at once. By this time, Aunt Sakina had already settled Uncle Ali in his chair by the window, cleaned the apartment and made breakfast. I checked my papers five times and drank endless cups of coffee while I waited. I was shaking. This would be the first time I’d been on a plane since I’d left Algeria, the first time I’d left France since then, the first time I’d faced the unknown, the first time I’d ever felt death at my elbow. And it was the first time in my life I would ever carry a suitcase. I was scared shitless.

Rachel’s Diary - June–July 1995

Rachel’s Diary

June–July 1995