⏱ Temps de lecture : 4 minutes
My name is Soukeyna. I'm 20 years old. I live on the eighth floor of a large grey tower in a city in the northern suburbs of Paris.
There's no more « Ethnic French » For a long time. They left, one by one, as if they were running from something. Only we, the children of the second generation, with our parents come elsewhere, and this heavy feeling of being home without ever really being there.
My family is from Mali. I was born here, like my brothers and sisters. France is my only country. Yet sometimes I feel like she doesn't want me.
We live at seven in an apartment too small.
My father, a former garbageman at the City of Paris, has been retired since an industrial accident ruined his back. He can't go out anymore. The elevator is broken three quarters of the time, so it stays locked, stuck in our living room, upstairs prisoner.
My mother, she, gets up every morning at four o'clock to go clean offices at La Defense.
When I get up, she's already gone. Then I'll take over. I wake up my brothers and sisters, wash them, dress them up, prepare breakfast for them, help Dad settle down, then accompany the kids to school before going to school.
I'm in commercial assistance BTS, I'm trying to hold on. It's not easy!
I don't like my neighborhood. Not because of people, but because of the atmosphere, the deaf violence, the oppression that is not said but felt.
Down in our building, a bunch of kids hang out all day. They squat in, smoke, insult, impose their law. Especially girls. Especially those who don't wear the veil. Some of my girlfriends ended up putting it on, just to leave them alone. I don't want to give up. But sometimes I'm scared.
So when I have some time, I take the subway, I go walking in the center of Paris. There, I can breathe. There, nobody knows me. There, I feel like I'm back to being a normal girl. A girl like the others.
But reality quickly catches me up.
To validate my BTS, I have to do an internship. I sent hundreds of applications. Letters. CVs. But all I get is silence. In my class, everyone found an internship. — Except those who, like me, have an African or Arabic name. It's never clear, but we know it. We feel it. We see him.
At home, I am also the one who speaks French for everyone. I'm the one who's with Mom on the dates with the teachers. I'm the one who helps kids do their homework, manages papers, appointments, shopping. I'm a big sister, a girl, a student, a translator, a social worker, a housekeeper, a nurse. All at once. Every day. Without a break. No recognition.
I work hard. Very hard. Because I want to succeed. Not just for me. For them. For my parents. For my brothers and sisters. To offer them another life, another horizon. But sometimes I felt that all the paths are blocked, that all the walls are too high.
We are told that we are French, but we are not allowed to be. We are judged by our first name, our neighbourhood, the color of our skin. We think we know everything about us. That we're lazy. Helped. But who comes to see what we really live? Who is watching our efforts, our dreams, our silent exhaustion?
I'm no exception. I'm one of so many. Thousands of Soukeyna in the cities of France. Children born here, who speak French, dream French, but look like strangers.
All I'm asking is a chance. A real one. No mercy, no favor. Just genuine equality.
I want this country to recognize its children. All his children. Those whose parents left everything behind to come here. Those who get up early, who work late, who take care of others before thinking about themselves. Those who deserve as much as anyone else to be loved, supported, respected. I want one day a girl like me to tell her story, and no one to be surprised. Because it would have become normal. Because it would have become fair.
