France : The Story of a Small Village

I've been in France for two weeks now - exams to take at the university, why do I do that by the way? - and I have to admit I feel very far from the well, and I haven't really been thinking about my dear blog.

Well, until I took a walk in the village where my parents live.

When I was 6, my parents bought a house in a very small village, in Meuse - a French "département" where there are probably more cows than people. In Verdun, the biggest town, there are barely 20,000 inhabitants. Meuse is famous for being one of the bloodiest battlefield of WWI - and also for the madeleines, that Proust loved so much.

It's common to hear people say that those villages are dying - it's true that there are no more priests in the churches, the cafés are almost all closed, and it's impossible to buy something to eat, you have to drive until the closest supermarket, 10 kilometers from the village.

But I don't know, it's just changing maybe. Because, on the other hand, I haven't seen that many kids in the street(s) (the plural is clearly an overstatement here) for a long time, and that many old houses being renovated.

I had never thought that my village was beautiful but now that I live so far away, I begin to see its beauty - and to understand why so many Dutch people buy houses here, for their vacations.

Here's what you can find in a typical village in Meuse.


A very, very old church.




And very old houses too of course.






A bakery, that's been closed for a least 10 years - and, very sad, the baker who used to work in this one is dying.






Streets with pretentious names - the "château" in question must look more like a farm than like a castle.




And the buses, claiming to be "fast", stop here only 2 twice a day, to bring kids to the high school in the nearest town.




Of course,there are mysterious woods, which have seen many battles.



- you can still see the trenches, and the craters the bombshells have made, almost a century ago. Very impressive.

And, by the old fortified church, a soldier.



(every November 11th, which marks the end of WWI, after church, our teacher would have us recite Hugo's "Hymn to the Dead" and we would get a bag of candy afterwards).


If you're lucky, there will be a school - many have closed -, and if you're even luckier, my school. I realize now that it was a tiny school, with tiny classes, and one teacher teaching everybody.





The saint patron of the village, here Saint Etienne (Saint Stephen in English), who must feel lonely since the priest retired.



That's part of the story of my village.

And that could be the story of dozens of villages in Meuse.

- Or, how what was already very old got older, and how schools, churches and bakeries closed one after the other.
- Or, the story of villages that loved more than everything having kids riding bicycles in their streets.

How it began

How did all of this begin ?

Let me see… I don’t remember very well… It was at least 6 years ago…

There was a boy, Frédéric –you already know him.

And he loved Arabic music. He had studied the ‘ud for many years, and there was even a time when he travelled for 10 hours each Wednesday just to learn it from one of its masters.

And there was the ‘ud master, Marc – you don’t know him, but please, take a look to what he’s done. Fabulous music.

A few decades ago, the ‘ud master was working in the French cooperation, as a teacher, in Morocco. He spent a few years in Fez. Since then he’s travelled in many places, and learned many intruments.

And the student was fascinated by the master. And fascinated by the city : Fez.

And there was a girl, Marie – well, me, obviously.

I loved – and still do – Arabic music too. I even learned to play to ‘ud. Not with the master though, I wasn’t good enough – and anyway he lived too far away from my city.

There were also people in Nancy, our city, friends, Algerians, and Moroccans.

And then there was Nancy, and the « rue Saint Nicolas ». A magical street, with oriental bazaars, Moroccan stores, and Turkish restaurants – well, not so magical, the restaurants...

And the boy had several jobs, but he liked none of them.

And because of all that, he left, one day, with his backpack, for Fez.

And then, for me, there were several trips to Fez – getting to know the city, picturing me living here. I loved this rooftop in the medina.

One day, I left too. I am not a musician like Fred – I am a teacher, and was able to find a job very quickly.

And then, or maybe before, we met Yassin.

He was living in Fez, in the medina. But both his father and his mother were born in Ouled Mgatel. They were cousins – the perfect marriage in Islam. Yassin’s family still lives in Ouled Mgatel – they are our neighbors now.

And one day he brought Fred to Ouled Mgatel. And Fred fell in love with the place.

Me too.

At this point, I could go on for hours. Because the story is still long. You see, we built the house very slowly.

What I just told you... was for us the easy part.

Back in Meuse

Oups, I wrote my last message two weeks ago. Time flies. I spent the last 10 days in France, because I had some exams at the University.

My parents live in a small village in Lorraine, in the North-East of France. It's not much bigger than Ouled Mgatel (well, there are more cars, and less children, unfortunately), but very different.

There are a lot more flowers. My mother is very proud of her garden. In the background, the field and a piece of the woods are ours too.

Anyway, tomorrow I'm flying back to Fez. I think my garden has changed a lot... and I'm really looking forward to see my cats, that, I'm told, try to scare the dogs all the time (but don't succeed... not surprising !).