Please Bring Back the Flowers
by Anita Lerek, 2005 ©

Hello, my name is…now you're sure, son, that I won't be fired for talking to you on this video….my name is Mohammed. I am 60 years old. Gardener is my trade, like my father before me may Allah protect his soul back in my old country of Algeria.

I work for the government, city of Paris, based here in Livry-Gargan. I am one of four gardeners. Been here the longest almost 20 years. They still have me listed as a gardener trainee. Can you imagine, me? My wife, Sula, moans about this all the time. We need more money, always the money. She's so emotional. A woman, what do you expect! I keep telling her, Allah protects us, keeps us in the palm of his hand.

That day I had been working hard gathering leaves and spreading them over my dead flowers. No, they're not dead, I know. Just lying peacefully in their beds protected by Allah til they come up again next Spring.

I noticed how dark it had become, and hobbled over to look at the large park clock. It was 4:30 p.m. Time to go to evening prayers soon.

I put my gardening tools away. Everything takes me longer these days, you know. Taking off my boots, my gloves. I'm so slow, so stiff.

I sat down on my favourite bench behind the shed. No one can see me there, especially not Pierre, my boss. He likes to catch me just when I'm finishing up for the day. Some emergency, he'd say. Mohammed, you've gotta stand guard in the park til the authorities come.

And it's only me he ever asks. Never the other gardeners, the younger ones, the French ones. How Sula cries when I come home late those evenings. And usually there is no emergency, just a complaint that some French man saw a black man in the park. But there's nothing I can do, I tell Sula. Allah protects us, keeps us in the palm of his hand.

Sitting on the bench that evening I remembered thinking how quiet my park had been all day. Maybe there had been some event at the fancy neighbourhood school. No naughty French children to chase away that day from my flower beds. But now it didn't matter. I found myself hoping that even those snobby brats would come and keep me company, make the time go faster now that I'd put my flowers to sleep for the winter.

So there I was that Thursday, chewing on my megot, my mind moving toward the evening prayers. Suddenly I saw a rush of dark faces coming toward me. I'm a good Muslim, so help me, Allah but the sight of all those dark men shocked me. Not too many of my kind in this park, except for me, of course. And I'm an old Arab. So no one cares.

There were nine of them. They stopped by my bench, surrounded me. Very polite. One of them, a tall black African, in a rainbow robe that Sula would rave about, spoke up.

I am Georges. Don't worry, brother. We don't mean you any harm. We've just finished a soccer game at the stadium over there, and we're taking a shortcut through the park to get to evening prayers at the Mosque on rue Clichy.

Just like me, I replied, and smiled for the first time. Sit down for a minute. I'll lock up the shed, and we can go to prayers together. I glanced around nervously.

The boys dropped down on the grass, laughing and chattering in French, Arabic, and other languages that I didn't understand. No fancy uniforms, just a ragtag of jeans, tee shirts, shorts, and robes. The gleam from some of their running shoes hit me. Probably stolen. How young, very young they all were, perspiring and relaxing on this warm beautiful evening. Allah be thanked.

Hey, gardener, a light-skinned boy, resting on his back, sat up. What do you grow here?

Lilies and tulips, son, I replied. But they're asleep in their beds til next year.

Did you hear what he said? chuckled Georges. The flowers are asleep, asleep. Where are they? And playfully getting on all fours, his robe flowing on the grass, he sang out, Where have the flowers gone?

The others couldn't resist - crawling, rolling, somersaulting, arms waving. There were nine boys acting like children laughing and chanting, Where have the flowers gone? Where have the flowers gone?

I didn't stop them. I felt a fluttering in my chest, a fullness I couldn't explain. I knew where these boys came from, where I came from, where my grown sons had run away from to Canada the rotten apartments of Clichy-Sous-Bois, with the urine-smelling hallways, the garbage filled yards, the stolen goods, the flowerless lives. Allah protect us.

The singing died down. Darkness surrounded us.

Then sirens pierced the silence.

Three police cars pulled up. Six policemen jumped out with their guns pointed at us.

Where have the flowers gone? I prayed to myself.

The officers ordered us all to face the shed, my shed, arms held high. They patted me all over. No one has ever touched me that way before. Allah, Allah, help me.

Three of the boys broke away. A police officer followed them.

With our faces still up against my shed, the officers made us search for our ID's. After what seemed an eternity, they let us go, with a strong warning to stay out of the park, the public park. I was too broken to tell them I had a right. I worked there!

That evening I did not go to my prayers.

Later I was horrified to find out that two of the three youths who had run away from the police had been electrocuted during the chase.

After the incident, Pierre, my manager, gave me a day off from work. It's the law, he said.

Life has slowly gone back to normal for me Sula, the mosque, the park, talking to the empty flower beds. Now I have added a line to my evening prayers, Allah, great Allah, please bring back the flowers. Please bring back the flowers.