homeless in paris.
homeless in paris. is a capstone project i did for Serve The City Paris in June to July 2022.
jardins d'eole
He is 26. He is ethnically from Northern India but he resided in central France.
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I first met him as one of Peter’s street barbershop clients at Jardins d’Eole. His beard had three tones — black, tinges of brown, tinges of white. The white captivated my thoughts, in it belies wisdom gathered from the streets.
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What struck me most was the coexistence of his ambition and realism. He refers to himself as a “hobo” but he later told me he waited tables for a month to save enough to travel. We talked of career aspirations. He told me life passes by fast in your twenties, you just got to take all the shots you can. He wants to work in casting and cinema in the United States, a dream he’s had for 10 years. He describes it as “laughable” and “ridiculous” but his eyes tell a story of hope. He tried once to enter US through an island near the Dominican Republic. His plan was simple: hop on a boat to the island, hitchhike for a week into the US. It almost worked, but he got stuck on the island and used what money he had left to return to Paris. When I met him, he had returned just two days prior.
He hopes to try again.
gare du nord, metro line 2
She does not speak so I don’t know her name, but I call her Mama. I tried speaking to her in English, and in French. Her sign is written in a script alphabet. She opened her mouth as if to respond but there were only muffled vocal sounds. She does not speak either language, so we spoke the language of food. A chicken sandwich and a 1.5L bottle of water sent tears down her cheek in an instant. She had no strength to open the twist cap of the bottle.
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I remember her fragile silhouette in the mouth of the entrance to the metro line 2 at Gare du Nord. I remember the contortion of her face as she gulped down water.
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I thought about her for the rest of my week.
république
A stuffed monkey collecting change between two homeless men on Rue de Turbigo. On another day, there was a stuffed penguin selling books. As the homeless men sit, I cannot help but notice that their backs are ironically cushioned by the wall of a bank building.
voie georges pompidou
A man who stays under a tunnel along Voie Georges Pompidou. Pictured is his collection of trinkets, homeware and other collectibles. Two sailor hats, one Woody figurine, one beer cup. A silver statue of Jesus on the cross next to an inscribed machete. At the foot of his tent, a makeshift stovetop innovatively created from a cut metal barrel. In place of fuel, there is an inverted pan.
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In all the times I have walked the route to Gare de Lyon, I cannot say I have ever met the man behind this treasure. I wonder how each came to find its place on this mantle, if any collectible has ever been stolen from him, and if these seemingly misplaced items of homeware seem to provide a familiar feeling of home. I want to ask if home is a feeling that can be created. I want to ask if this collection means he has found roots under this tunnel, if these items are signs of permanence. I want to ask if he is afraid these things will be stolen, and if he thinks it will feel like losing fragments of his home.
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boulevard de ménilmontant
A lady sewing fabrics at the corner of my apartment building. I had never seen her around before. I bought breakfast for her — a croque monsieur and an espresso — but she rejected it. “I already had my coffee. You should give it to someone who needs it more.” A rare brand of selflessness indeed. I never saw her again.
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quai de la rapée
This is Romuald. Most days he stands at the corner of Franprix, under the shade between 21 to 23 Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. He grew up in Le Havre, a small port city in Normandy that I currently reside in. He told me Le Havre has changed so much in the last few years: the buildings look different, especially the gare which is now narrower and more modern-looking. He asked me if ‘Roi de la Frite’ is still there. It is, and he got a kick out of that. He used to go there with his parents, I told him its famous amongst my university friends. We shared a moment of excitement, our memories unified by a shared love for kebabs and fries. Despite his preference for French people in the North over the South, he warned me that some parts of Le Havre were dangerous. He told me about a mass shooting in a gay bar in Oslo that happened two days ago. He had heard about it on the radio of his phone, a phone that works to play the radio and nothing else. He believes in respecting others for the choices they make: it is the reason he did not interfere in a tenant’s affair when he worked as a building guardian, it is the reason he does not flinch when he sees gay couples in Paris.
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We sit at a bench at Quai de la Rapee and watch the boats go by. While other people in Paris people-watch, he boat-watches. It reminds him of Le Havre. Since leaving Le Havre, he has lived in Marseille, then Paris. He moved to Paris so he can get a job, but he says the problem is that housing and jobs are often mutually exclusive, people seldom have both.
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This interview with Romuald was made possible by Sacha, who is filming a documentary about Romuald. Thank you for inviting me to meet Romuald, and translating on our behalf.
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stalingard
A group of friends, united by their Afghan identity and their foreignness to France. Under the metro tracks of Stalingard, they speak, eat, and rest. Once he decided that he trusted Peter and I enough, the twenty-year-old took out his paperwork to ask us to decipher his police letter. None of them speak enough French to figure it out. They knew the police as people who frequently disrupt their sleep, their tents and their belongings. It was a summon for him to give an interview, the first step in a migrant’s integration process. Every step was difficult and painfully selective: the interview rejected eighty percent of all applicants. There was a wave of resolution and regret as they described life in Afghanistan. Their lives as refugees were the direct consequence of political flaws.
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This is Jangul’s view every morning. Jangul generously laid out a piece of cardboard for me to sit on in order to take this photo. I couldn't help but compare this to my own view every morning: big windows, blinds with light just peaking through, drawn curtains. Blinds and curtains meant that the amount of light that greeted me in the morning was something I could control. This never struck me as a privilege.
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Jangul has seven children. He shows them to me proudly on his telephone. As I look at his family portrait with their little faces staring back at me, I think about the pain of sacrifice: what it is to give up the blessing of familial love for the promise of a better life.
gratitude & concluding thoughts
Thank you to Serve The City Paris for making homeless in paris. a reality for me. STCP warmly welcomed me into their family, allowing me to meet various homeless people on our tri-weekly food distribution routes. I am grateful for all the guidance and encouragement I received whilst putting this project together.
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My aim was to capture little snipbits of their lives on the street, but also beyond the street: what memories lingered from their past, and what they hoped for the future. However, a month is hardly long enough to gain the trust of many homeless people I interacted with, let alone convince them to tell me about their life stories. They move around rather unpredictably, and on a few occasions, I've only met an interviewee once and never again.
This project showed me that there are always people in need, especially in a city as demanding and stratified as Paris. If you ever find yourself in a position of privilege and with abundance, I hope you'll give freely, with an open mind and a kind heart.