'We don't know these people': Anxiety and empathy await asylum seekers leaving Calais camp
Relocation of migrants from the ‘jungle’ creating a rift in French communities
André Fournier recalls the day in May 1940 when the Germans breached the French front.
"One day, at 4 a.m., the sirens suddenly blared in Sedan. People ran through the streets telling us we had to evacuate the city," he says.
"At the time, Sedan was like Aleppo is today. Eighty per cent of it was destroyed."
Sedan is in the Ardennes, a small department that borders Belgium in the northeast of France. The area is well-known for being battle-worn, the site of major German offences and defining final battles in the First and Second World Wars.
Buildings here are still pockmarked by bullet holes and people like to debate which parts of the landscape were caused by bomb blasts.
And yet, despite such deep history with the ravages of war, many here remain apprehensive about the arrival of migrants from the camp being cleared at Calais.
The densely forested, sparsely populated Ardennes will host 110 of the asylum seekers relocated from the "jungle," 80 in its main city and 30 in the nearby village of Rimogne.
'Looked upon with suspicion'
For Fournier, though, solidarity is key. He was 10 years old in 1940 and still has keen memories of days spent as a "refugee" in his own country.
"There were about 200 of us from Sedan. A trainload-full headed south. We were fired at by the Stuka [dive bombers] and many died along the way. By the time we got to Deux-Sèvres, we were quite a dismal-looking lot."
Their reception wasn't much better.
"Back then, we were as foreign to the south as Syria might be to France today," Fournier says.
"We were looked upon with suspicion, considered foreigners who had nothing to do there. We were implicitly identified with the Germans even though they were our invaders.
"It's an image that flashed back when I saw boatloads of people landing in Italy and Greece. I can't help but feel a deep sympathy with today's refugees."
'They're coming'
But not everyone in the Ardennes is like-minded.
Despite the small numbers of asylum seekers arriving and the fact that their residence is only temporary, a resistance has emerged here, much like it has in so many other cities, towns and villages designated to host the thousands of migrants transported out of Calais.
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For the last month and a half, pockets of people and city officials across the country have protested the arrival of migrants, some tamely with weekend marches, but others more violently, vandalizing, flooding or even torching the buildings chosen to house them.
The latest were set on fire overnight Sunday as the first buses prepared to load in Calais.
Most aggressive has been the mayor of Béziers, Robert Ménard.
On Oct. 11, he plastered his city with agitprop posters warning: "They're coming."
SOS Racisme, an anti-racist NGO, and others quickly denounced the campaign, comparing it to the anti-Semitic propaganda of Vichy-era France.
City officials in the Ardennes are, for the most part, less ardent. A few have gathered for lunch at the annual Apple Festival in Renwez, a village of about 1,800 just minutes down the road from Rimogne.
None wants to be named and all agree the issue is "very sensitive" and "too delicate" to comment publicly.
They appeal to economics and tell of how their once-wealthy metal works towns have been left behind by time and competition. They talk of double-digit unemployment rates, the exodus of their youth and their aging demographics.
The one statement they agree on is that they don't have the human, material or transportation resources to deal with an influx of migrants in their towns.
'We just don't know'
But Fournier dismisses that argument.
"They're false problems," he says, turning to economics himself.
"We need the workforce. There are carpenters and tradesmen of all kinds in Calais that we desperately need in France. But unfortunately, they don't really want to stay here given the way we talk about them."
The baker in Rimogne offers an example.
"We don't know these people," says Aurore Conniasselle, who launched a petition against the migrants' arrival in Rimogne two weeks ago.
Her tiny bakery gives onto the family kitchen where her two children play. The queue is long yet patient, as is she. She allows an elderly woman to dither between the mille-feuille and the Paris-Brest for minutes and then walks her out, protecting her customer and the pastries down the steps.
"They're housing them in the old police station, right next to the school," says Conniasselle of the new arrivals.
"Who's to say they won't be there peeping at the kids through the fence or who knows what. They say that we might get some women, too, but we just don't know."
'It's a village here'
She, too, is initially reluctant to speak and draws the line at having her face photographed.
She's abandoned the petition after receiving as much support as backlash.
"I've been insulted, called a racist on social media, and the way some of the other parents look at me now, you know ... it's a village here."
She learned of the migrants' arrival in her Facebook feed, the news posted by a National Front candidate.
Conniasselle was shocked at the lack of consultation. She reacted impulsively, she says, and took aim at city officials. Only later did she find out that the state is handling the operation and not giving municipalities much choice in the matter.
"It's the way they went about informing us," she says. "We didn't have the time to turn around."
Eventually, meetings were held at city hall with the associations mandated to deal with the migrants.
"I felt so guilty after that. For two, three days, I thought: 'I must be inhuman.' But eventually, I came to terms with why I did it. It wasn't a political stand. It was maternal instinct."
'Terrible misunderstanding'
She points out that there are "extremists" in Rimogne. Pigs' feet were hurled at the police station last week and anti-migrant posters appeared briefly on city signage.
"I just can't imagine how this is going to turn out," she says. "But when I saw them putting a fresh coat of paint on the police station, I realized there's nothing to be done. This is happening."
Fournier sympathizes with Conniasselle.
"Her actions were honest, she was sincere in what she did. Fear of foreigners is quite natural, but it's a prejudice that's easily overcome."
He blames the electoral season for spoiling the air and for not preparing the population.
"It's a terrible misunderstanding. As the elections approach and people see that Madame Le Pen has close to 30 per cent support, everyone's panicking," he says.
"Not everyone has the advantage, or rather the inconvenience, of having as many bad memories as an 86-year-old."
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