I already have a small network of contacts. When Zena’s parents arrived in September 2015, I naturally told my coworkers about their struggle. One of them had a son on an internship at the regional newspaper La Dépêche du Midi; one thing led to another and a very positive, feel-good sort of article appeared under the headline “Refugees Reunited with Their Tarn family.” The article attracted the attention of other local media, spawning an article in Le Tarn libre, an interview on local radio, and even a piece on France 3 regional TV.
I’ve kept in touch with these contacts, as I have with Ghislaine Buffard, the director who was interested in Manal and Khaled’s story. I informed them all when my parents-in-law looked likely to be deported to Hungary, and let them know about the case that Mr. Brel brought against the Tarn prefect. Ghislaine and quite a crowd of journalists were at the administrative court on the day of the trial.
Which is why, as soon as Mrs. D. uses the words “crime” and “people smuggler,” I know I must resort to this form of leverage. It’s obvious, an absolute necessity, offering a tiny glimmer of hope to help me get out of the situation in which I find myself.
“We have no chance at all if we just sit doing nothing with no one helping us,” I tell Zena. “We have nothing to lose, it’s bound to help!”
And so, two years after the administrative hearing in Toulouse, I get back in touch with my contacts in radio, television, and the press. Éric Berger at La Dépêche is one of the first to react: He is someone I will always think of as a friend, and he does a lot to ensure our story is made public, not only in his newspaper but also among his own network of journalists in other media. The second pillar of our media coverage is Christophe Chassaigne at France 3 Tarn: He follows our case right from the start, with true dedication and genuine goodwill. The other media—be they press, radio, or TV—will only ever give us coverage at the instigation of Éric or Christophe.
* * *
—
In the first instance, only print media approaches me. I’m reasonably comfortable in this medium. I’m used to writing for my work, putting together documents with strong ideas supported by explanatory appendices; plus it can be done “cold,” at a distance. La Dépêche soon asks me to appear in a short video that they can use on their website, and this also poses few problems: They’re happy to cut and start again if I ask them to, and the interviewer asks me what I want to talk about, to be sure that he puts the relevant questions to me.
Things get trickier when it comes to doing radio and TV interviews. I’m used to public speaking: I’m a social relations legal expert, I contribute to important meetings on a near daily basis and have to put my point across in front of fifteen or twenty people. But being interviewed is totally different! I like to think of the media as a platform, but the truth is I have no guarantee that the three or four important ideas that I desperately want to get across can be shoehorned into my replies to whatever questions the interviewer asks, questions I never know ahead of time. I’m keen to communicate the fact that my in-laws’ lives were at risk both in Syria and while they were fleeing; that France doesn’t prosecute people who help family members to escape; and that Zena and I lead a simple, ordinary life with our daughters. So I need to stay completely calm, or at least appear so, because the camera (or the mic) takes no prisoners, but I must also give as good as I get from the journalist, without losing track of where he or she is heading.
Anyone would be stressed at the thought of being interviewed live, on a subject close to his or her heart, while in a dangerous situation like mine. But that’s not all: While I prepare frantically for each of these interviews, I’m hiding a secret weakness…all through my childhood and up until I was at university I had a stutter. All those years spent terrified that the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth and furious that I knew what I wanted to say but couldn’t say it—they now came back to haunt me when I thought I’d put them behind me long ago. I had no therapy at the time and no specific form of support. I coped on my own, doing my own research and working on the problem independently. My tenacity was supported by love from my family and my faith in God, which is as far-reaching as it is independent of any religion. It’s funny because, like most people who’ve had a stutter, I’m very talkative and I’ve chosen a career where oral expression is crucial: I have to speak in presentations, to negotiate, to persuade other people and sometimes even to confront them. I’m perfectly at ease in the moment, but when I’m anticipating a particularly difficult meeting, I have an irrational fear that my stutter will come back like the shark in Jaws suddenly looming out of the water and violently overturning the boat on which I’m trying to escape.
When I start doing TV interviews, there’s the same ambivalence between the relaxed Stéphan and the Stéphan who once had a stutter. I’ll never forget my first live TV experience on the news show 19/20 for France 3 Tarn on September 29. When we arrive at the France 3 premises in Toulouse, we’re shown around the studios and the newsroom to put us at ease. Despite this warm welcome, I’m very aware that I’ll be talking live, with no safety net: I’m ashen-faced, almost paralyzed with fear, and poor Zena runs out of ways to reassure me. I’ve brought a few notes so that I have something to cling to like a buoy. Just before we start filming, the interviewer takes me aside. I think he’s going to tell me what his questions will be, but he just gives me an idea of what he’ll be discussing with me. When he sees the sheets of paper in my hands, he gives me some advice.
“If you don’t mind my saying,” he says, “don’t use notes and, whatever happens, don’t try to get across some message you’ve prepared. I’ve already seen people mess up interviews trying to do that. We have just five minutes: If you give long answers in order to make a point, I’ll only have time for a couple of questions and you won’t get through to people in the same way.”
He’s right to warn me, I would have fallen straight into that trap. I stow my notes back in my briefcase and decide to put my faith in my instincts and this man’s genuine intention to help me tell my story. And I do have a little experience: I’ve been doing press and radio interviews for a few days now so I have a clear idea of what I want to say.
It’s my turn to speak, I’m replying to the first question: “They’re running away from mortal danger, they’re victims, they’re family, I go to help them and now I’m told that we’re the criminals.”
On screen I look drawn, worn down by events but also profoundly outraged and this anger sustains me, helps me stand tall and strong at such a difficult time.
Those words were improvised, they came to me spontaneously. When interviews are shorter, like the one for CNews which lasts just two minutes, I start to understand—though not necessarily to forgive—politicians who trot out for every interview the same short, high-impact sentence prepared with their staff. I don’t have the luxury of a speechwriter, but I’m fully aware that, with so little available time, you have to hammer out a few key statements to grab attention, ensure you’re understood, and hope viewers will still remember you tomorrow.
In the early days I emerge from these interviews totally frazzled, exhausted by the huge effort I’ve put into answering questions while frantically thinking of a way to communicate—in just a few words—the things I want to say, without turning into a robot or seeming insincere.
“There were sixty-five of them on an eight-meter boat.”
“They nearly drowned.”
“I haven’t stolen anything or killed anyone.”
“I’m not a hero or a criminal.”
* * *
—
One of the assistants at Mila’s day nursery is especially attentive. She always has a kind word and a smile, and when Zena told her I might be facing a prison sentence because I helped her parents, she was very affected by the news. She regularly asks for updates and shows Mila the affection that my little girl so badly needs in all this turmoil. One evening in late October I
happen to be the one picking Mila up from the day nursery. As I’m leaving, the assistant asks me if I’ve thought of mounting a petition.
“You know, on Facebook,” she says. “Everyone does it, why shouldn’t you? What’s happening to you is really serious.”
I discuss it with Zena when I get home, and she agrees that it’s an excellent idea. And so we set up our petition addressed to Emmanuel Macron on Change.org.
17.
An unbearable waiting game
The days are punctuated by letters and interviews, and we’re growing increasingly pessimistic: We think I’ll be sentenced to one year in prison, perhaps as a suspended sentence, perhaps not. Zena and I both have substantial doubts about my lawyer’s competence. Since my last telephone conversation with her in late September, despite my requests, she hasn’t sent me any French translations of legal documents that might shed more light on my situation. And she’s never free to talk to me. At this distance I have no traction with her, and I feel happier concentrating on my aim of bringing our story to the attention of the French public and letting it build momentum. My lawyer finally contacts us a few days before the trial to say she’s found a verdict for a similar case in Patras: The defendant was discharged. She reads through the court’s decision, which is of course written in Greek, and doesn’t translate it even though I chose her because she speaks French. I will later learn that the Greek press got wind of my story and several local journalists asked to interview her but she systematically refused.
Every day that my lawyer does nothing toward my case adds to my wife’s despair.
“She’s our only contact, our only hope, and she’s not doing anything! I’m a lawyer too, Stéphan, and I’ve never treated a client like this.”
All the same, Zena does everything she can to reassure her parents, dreading the thought that they will blame themselves. At this stage, Saif and Wafaa are confident about the outcome.
“There won’t be a sentence,” they tell Zena. “We told them straightaway that we’re his wife’s parents, we made it very clear he’s not a dealer but a member of the family. There won’t be a sentence and do you know what? You’ll get your car back.”
I’m also worried about my own parents and sister; I know that they’re finding this very stressful, although they try not to let it show. The whole family is on tenterhooks, and I can’t think of any way to reassure them about this terrible, precarious case in the hands of a lawyer with such a casual attitude.
18.
Seven years in prison
ZENA’S STORY
When Stéphan finally gets a hold of his lawyer, I watch him screw up his face as he listens to the verdict. My God, I think immediately, he’s got a year in prison. He hangs up and sits in silence for a moment. When he eventually manages to repeat the words that have so visibly shaken him, I myself am poleaxed:
“Seven years. I’ve been sentenced to seven years in prison with no possibility of parole.”
I don’t know what to say. Stéphan looks away, briefly gazes at the kitchen table where we’re sitting, and picks up an imaginary crumb. Then he rubs his forehead, rubs all over his head as if trying to force himself back into the room.
“And the sentence is redeemable.”
“What does ‘redeemable’ mean?”
“It’s very simple: five euros per day of the sentence, so a total of thirteen thousand euros.”
I can’t believe it, this is like being back in Syria. A redeemable sentence? You can buy your freedom in a European country that’s meant to be a democracy? If you ask me, this is a corrupt system in broad daylight, for all to see. It’s almost worse than the prison sentence: It just adds to our total lack of understanding, and our disgust. In a few hours’ time, it will give us hope, but right now it just makes us sick.
“Of course the lawyer’s advising me to appeal.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“No, wait, I can’t accept this verdict! What does it say? That I’m a common criminal, a people smuggler, a mercenary who makes money off of other people’s misery? I want to clear my name. We’ve got grounds, Zena, moral and legal grounds—this case isn’t over.”
“But think about it: What’s the point? I can’t see how the court could reduce its sentence from seven years with no parole to a discharge or even an acquittal…”
“I’m sure they could, rulings get overturned like that all over the world. At least if you can give the court a good reason, and I can give them plenty!”
“If Greece were still an honest country, maybe, but—I mean really!—a redeemable prison sentence? That tells the whole story. You’re bound to lose.”
Should he appeal? Another year, possibly two, of sleepless nights and anxious days? No. No! I can’t take it, I just wouldn’t get through it. All the guilt that I managed to sweep under the rug in our peaceful family life, the feeling that I was responsible for sending my husband off to be arrested and therefore sentenced to prison…all that now comes crashing down on me with shocking violence.
It seems obvious to me: It would be better to pay. Yes, but how? Those thirteen thousand euros are funds we just don’t have.
19.
Guilty of loving
First the news of the trial and then this unconscionable verdict—our whole family suffers the blow of our brush with the Greek legal system.
When my father first heard about the trial he took it very badly, echoing the way he reacted when I set off to Greece without warning him. He criticized me for precisely the faults I see in myself, told me how naive I’d been, kept saying I walked right into the lion’s den. Our conversations resonated painfully with my own feelings of guilt, a fiercely corrosive emotion that ate away at me day and night. If only I’d been smarter, if only I’d prepared a proper plan of action to get us all onto that ferry. I relived our arrest one second at a time every night, and thought through all the other options we could have chosen to succeed.
Although my mother hadn’t spoken to me about this, I’m sure she’s told my father how deeply his criticism affected me. Thanks to her and because, first and foremost, he wanted to support me like the good head of the household that he is, he calmed down and demonstrated that he was right behind me, whatever the cost. And so did my sister. United around me, my family was a valuable support when that unacceptable verdict was delivered.
* * *
—
I try my best to hold it together after the verdict. I have a wonderful wife and two gorgeous little girls, my coworkers are supportive, and I can see that our attempts to raise the profile of our case are starting to produce results…But, oh my goodness, it’s hard to keep going. Seven years in prison! We hear on the news every day about murderers and rapists who are given shorter sentences. Despite my best efforts, I’m gloomy, often dejected, not always there for my children or my wife, even though she really needs me. Our younger daughter, Mila, can feel the change and she lets it show. She slept through the night very early but now can’t sleep alone and cries for hours every evening despite all our efforts to soothe her. Julia is bearing up well, although she’s amazed to see her daddy on TV. Zena and I try to tell her what’s going on and her teacher tells us later that Julia explained it all to her.
“Daddy’s a hero,” Julia told her. “He saved Granny and Grandpa when they died in the sea!”
The time that the four of us spend together is precious to me, radiant. When we’re with our daughters we feel good, we’re in the moment, and everything else disappears for a while. But even these wonderful times can’t heal the wounds that my time in custody in Greece, and now this trial, have opened in me. I’m irritable and I fly off the handle with Zena and the girls. I immediately regret it but there’s so much anger in me that it’s often more than I can contain.
When we’re given the verdict, Saif and Wafaa are horrified and can’t forgive themselves for the
problems they feel they brought on me. My mother-in-law, despite being very reserved, takes the trouble to call me straightaway to apologize.
“It’s all our fault, Stéphan, we’re so sorry.”
I do what I can to convince her that the responsibility lies not with her or me but the outrageous and inhuman workings of the Greek justice system. It makes me furious to hear this woman—whom I love like a second mother—crying over the situation. Only my sisters-in-law prove relatively serene, and I’m glad that they are: It means that Zena can rely on their warmth and support, and she needs that. Manal in particular puts her faith in rallying public opinion. She remembers the positive effect that Ghislaine Buffard’s report had on her family’s life.
* * *
—
We have a limited window of time. We must decide whether or not to appeal, and we have only ten days to make this decision. When the lawyer told me that I’d been sentenced to prison with no remission, my instinct was to refute the verdict. But everyone close to us—both friends and relations—has the same reaction…
“Thirteen thousand euros?” they say. “Well, we’ll all chip in and help you. Don’t get embroiled in another trial.”
And so Zena persuades me to go down this route.
“We’ll see, Stéphan, but I do think we should try to set up a kitty. Let’s see how much we have just before the deadline and then make a decision.”
Our families are obviously our first donors and we’re deeply touched by their generosity. It isn’t enough, though; far from it. But everything changes thanks to a phone call I receive the day after the verdict.
“Hello, Mr. Pélissier, this is Vincent Lesclauze at Bangumi Productions.”
I Just Wanted to Save My Family Page 12
