Yesterday a friend told me a story. It moved me deeply and I was stunned, that things like that really happen. I grew up in a very – let’s say diligent – setting. I was hardly ever confronted with things like violence, abuse or outraging and ignorant behaviour. I asked her to write the story down, that’s what she did. Please read and then think about it. It’s too important to be missed.
France, August 2009
We were staying at a campsite near Bordeaux, Dune de Pyla.
Every night, until about one o’clock in the morning, the campsite had some kind of event prepared for the people staying there. The French love their “spectacles”.
Wednesday night was the karaoke night. The restaurant was packed full with chatty and tipsy French singing and dancing along to the chansons, sung by a wild mixture of complete amateurs and half-professionals.
Everyone (providing they had 100% of French blood pulsing through their veins) was having the time of their life, everywhere you looked men and women were happily chanting along. I, being bored and tired, was looking around, and, all of a sudden, a little figure at a neighbouring table caught my attention. A little boy, about two or three years old, was sitting in one of the green plastic chairs, rocking to and forth, his big eyes absorbing all the loud things going on around him.
This sounds tacky, but he was an exceptionally beautiful little child.
A sweet little pixy face, all small and frail, lots of blond curls, and this amazed look on his face, perhaps confused by the loud music and smoke.
I smiled. Feeling all sentimental I quickly looked away and suddenly caught sight of his father, sitting next to him. Cigarette in one hand, big jug of beer in the other, he stared expressionless at the scene going on before him. One is not supposed to always judge people by their looks, I know, but he just seemed like an absolute macho. No discussion about who was the head of the house. Didn’t seem very warm hearted. Maybe I am wrong, I thought, who knows, he might have a lovely soul.
I looked at his little boy, rocking away in his chair, and wondered how long it would take until he would look like his father.
He was really having fun, getting all daring and really leaning backwards far. Then, he got over-excited. He stretched out his legs, kicked the table, thus tilting his chair way back. Uh-oh, how long until… And then it had already happened. The unsteady plastic chair with the small and light body gave way and the little boy fell backwards… Like in slow motion he came nearer to the ground and then, not slow motion anymore, his little head crashed hard onto the gray concrete. The little blond boy took a deep breath-and waaaaaah!!!!! starting crying! But not for long. His father, quickly grasping the situation, walked over to the boy and with a firm grip clamped his giant hands over his little sons face. The poor kid was kicking, obviously getting out of breath, waving his arms frantically around and helplessly trying to push away his father’s barrier. The father bent down and for a few seconds whispered something into the kid’s ear, and by god, judging by the expression on his face, I do not want to know what it was.
It had the wanted effect. Removing his hand, the man shot another violent glance at his now quiet son and marched back to his chair. Lighting a new cigarette, sipping at his beer, he once again became involved in staring.
And then the little boy did something that one just doesn’t forget. He turned away from his father, now facing me but staring at the ground, he started crying again, his tears streaming down his face silently, his whole little frame shaking in suppressed pain, sadness and loss of love from everybody around him. Where in god’s name is his mother? I thought desperately, sobbing myself, feeling confused at what to do. All I wanted to do was run to the kid and pick him up, hugging and comforting him, and trying to give him the comfort his dad had not.
Then, at last, his mother arrived. She looked typically French. Black bob, long-limbed, stylishly dressed and not beautiful but interesting.
She sat down, the father talked to her for a few seconds and then she leant back and, also lighting a cigarette and seemed to enjoy the music. Stupid cow, I thought, her child has almost had a concussion and she is smoking! When I was just about to go to her and tell her what had happened, she stood up and held out her arms. The boy leapt into her lap and she just held him, quietly and loving. At last, I thought. The boy had calmed down a bit.
His mother really started to enjoy the music. She was dancing and singing, her eyes fixed on the stage, knowing all the words off by heart. She was obviously having the time of her life.
Suddenly, with one glance at his wife, her husband stood up. He stubbed out his half-finished cigarette, left his almost empty beer on the table and stood up with one wave of his hand, he signalled his family to leave. The wife obediently jumped up and reaching for the boy’s hand started walking away. She was still dancing, reluctant to go, but the man made clear there was no argument. His wife was enjoying herself, he was annoyed and bored, they had to go!
When they had left, I felt dreadful. Should I have said something to the father when he shut his kid up by taking away his breath? No, I don’t think I should have. Satisfying my ego is not worth it if wife and child get beaten up at home afterwards. The man did not look the type to mess with when in a bad mood or drunk. It is a difficult situation, but not one you could solve by interfering. You cannot heal this man’s forty years of living, being brought up and raising his children that way by once telling him what you think of him!
As for his wife, those kind of women often take years to break away from their husband, if they do at all, and by making their brutal husbands angry, you only make sure that his emotions will be let out on her in the private four walls of their home.
