Loosely inspired by the occupation of the Church of Saint-Bernard de la Chapelle in Paris by a group of more than two hundred “sans-papiers”⁠—undocumented immigrants⁠—led by a Senegalese woman named Madjiguène Cissé, from June 28 to August 23, 1996.

THE UNDOCUMENTED 

Men, women. African men, African women. 

— My name is Ba … Bamba.

— My name is Maré … Soumaré.

— My name is Katé … Niakaté.

— I’m Kara … Tounkara.

— I’m Hadji … Alhadji.

— My name is Madjiguène Cissé … and let me tell you, all of us are liars in one way or another.

— Real liars …

— We’re all identity thieves.

— By which I mean, we go by names that aren’t ours.

— (in unison) Identity thieves! 

— Or we don’t go by the names we should.

— (in unison) Identity fraud! 

— It’s true, I confess.

— Me too …

— Me too …

— All right, let’s start over …

— My name is Papiers … Sans-Papiers.

— Me too …

— Me too …

— The truth is, we don’t get to name ourselves.

— And we accept that.

— Not much choice.

— Speak for yourself! At our age, we can’t just let people call us whatever they like! Birth names are important.

— I agree, but it depends on the type of birth.

— So which kind of birth are we talking about?

— In this country, you’re born the day you get your papers. Here, we don’t have a maternity ward, we have the police headquarters.

— Before that, it doesn’t matter how much you scream like a newborn …

— While we wait to be born, we’re all called …

— (in unison) Sans-Papiers. 

Silence and shared glances. 

THE DECISION 

A group of African women and men⁠—even two or three individuals⁠—can, without a shadow of a doubt, be referred to as a pan-African assembly. To be a Soninke can mean you are Mauritanian, Senegalese, or Malian; a Senufo might be Malian, Burkinabe, Ivorian, or Ghanaian; a Malinke could hold a passport from any of at least fourteen West African countries; the Peul can claim the nationality of just about any country along the curve that runs from Senegal through Cameroon, all the way to Tanzania …

— “May the blood of the impure irrigate our lands.” At every demonstration, we sing the “Marseillaise.” Can you believe it? We chant these racist words while crying racism!

— Well, when we sing it, it’s more a symbol of unity.

— Racist or unifying, it’s gotten us nowhere. All it’s done is make us look ridiculous.

— We’ve been rotting away in this abandoned warehouse on the rue Pajol going on three months … 

— Not the most brilliant idea we’ve had, this dump!

— Wallaye billaye!

— Three months of pointless marches.

— “First, second, third generation … every child comes from immigration!”

— “S-s-s-solidarity … with the Sans-Papiers!”

— Slogans are all very well, but they get you nowhere.

— Wallaye billaye!

— Stop saying that!

— When we occupied Saint-Ambroise, at least it had class.

— Black guys wearing boubous in church, huh!

— You should’ve seen the big owl eyes everyone was making, ha ha ha! 

— The last time anyone occupied a church in Paris was back in 1977, in the Latin Quarter, Saint-Someshit-or-other …

— Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet!

— Oustaz, you’re the one who leads us in prayer, what do you know about Chardonnay?

— Safiullah! I didn’t say “Chardonnay,” I said “Chardonnet.” I read it somewhere …  a bunch of Catholic extremists who wanted to keep celebrating the Latin Mass … 

— People used to say Mass in Latin?

— Yeah, yeah, the same way we pray in Arabic. Except that the Catholic Mass has been celebrated in every language in the world for decades now. That’s what struck me when I read their story.

— Extremists, I tell you!

— So what did they get out of occupying the church?

— You’re gonna laugh.

— Make us laugh then.

— They’re still there, still occupying the church, still saying the Mass in Latin.

— Then why were we evicted from Saint-Ambroise?

— Have you looked in the mirror lately?

— There isn’t even a half of a third of a quarter of a Christian among us. 

— Wallaye billaye!

— We’re fucked!

— Really? So a bunch of Catholic Salafists get to hang on to their sacred Chardonnet but we’re living with the winos?

— A simple case of the blond hair and blue eyes, I’m telling you.

— Comrades, we’re up to our asses in it.

— Wallaye billaye!

Silence and shared glances. 

— Listen to me … 

Restless fidgeting. 

— And let me finish!

Silence and shared glances. 

— A few months ago, each and every one of us was nothing more than a miserable, powerless undocumented immigrant. Even a glimpse of police-uniform blue would make us start, sweat, and shake. For other people, the Métro and the commuter trains were simple means of transport, but for us those labyrinthine corridors were death traps. All it would take was a minor violation, a routine ID inspection, and we’d be reeled in like catfish from the Seine and sent to the nearest detention center. Raising our voices was a risky business. Our neighbors, our bosses, crooks, thugs, anyone and everyone could yell at us, call us every name under the sun, knowing we’d never fight back. One call to the local police and bam⁠—you’ve got a one-way ticket back to Bamako, Dakar, or Conakry. We endured all sorts of humiliations, and we just stood there with our mouths hanging open. Now here we are, in broad daylight, screaming and shouting out who we are … And who are we?

— (in unison) Sans-Papiers! 

— We scream into our megaphones who we no longer want to be … and who do we no longer want to be?

— (in unison) Sans-Papiers! 

— They tried to divide us. They offered documents to a handful of people, especially spokespeople like us. And they got a big fat “no” ringing in their big fat ears. We’re still here. Even the handful who’ve recently been issued residence permits have stayed. Divide and conquer doesn’t work anymore. From now on, we’re a united front. We’ve already secured something fundamental for each and every one of us: dig-ni-ty.

Silence and shared glances. 

— You’re right, but … 

— Let her finish!

Silence and shared glances. 

— The one thing we can all agree on is that occupying an old warehouse that no one gives a shit about is pointless … 

— Pointless, pointless, pointless! Like the bite of a tsetse fly on a buffalo’s horns!

— We need to occupy spaces that have much greater symbolic power. The ant in your shoes is much less irritating than the one in your underpants.

— Wallaye billaye!

— But where? We don’t even have a useful little factory to squat in … 

— You can blame the Hausas for that, they’re afraid of the White Man’s machines. 

Stifled laughter.

— And we don’t have a university at hand.

— Is there a Soninke person on earth who knows the way to a university?

Raucous laughter.

— We could occupy a ministry, maybe even the Ministry of the Interior!

Shouts and laughter. 

— If we so much as take a step in that direction, they won’t just evict us, they’ll dissolve us, like salt in a bowl of mafe …  

— Subhanallah!

— You’re interrupting her again … 

Silence and shared glances. 

— From Pajol to République, then République to Pajol via the Gare du Nord and from there to La Chapelle … On the deafening route of our weekly marches, you come to a McDo, and on the left is the rue Jean-François Lépine. I don’t know if he’s actually related to Louis Lépine, the former chief of police, but it has the right ring to it. And right at the end of the street, there’s a courtyard and a church, the Église Saint-Bernard.

— Another church?

— What is it with you and churches?

— It’s no coincidence that there are more than a hundred and ten churches in Paris alone⁠—more than there are mosques in Timbuktu or Touba. Churches are powerful symbols in this country!

— But last time it only took them three days to kick us out of your “powerful symbol.” This time, we wouldn’t last twenty-four hours.

— Last time, no one was expecting us. But months of demonstrations and marches have brought us out of the shadows. And last time wasn’t in early summer. People weren’t itching to go get sunburned on a beach here in France or in some faraway place⁠—probably in one of the countries we come from … 

— And all they need are their passports!

— Going on vacation without a care in the world⁠—that’s their priority. At this time of year, they’re trying to stall for time. Otherwise they wouldn’t have waited until now to announce that they’ll regularize the status of a few Sans-Papiers on a case-by-case basis …

Silence and shared glances. 

— What about the priest and his boss the cardinal? Couldn’t they call the cops or sign a requisition order again?

— Like I said, last time nobody knew who we were. If the priest and his boss sign a requisition order, word will spread all over France. And you should never underestimate the power of Catholic guilt.

Silence and shared glances. 

—  Now, I looked at several prospective churches before I settled on this one. I could see on the priest’s face that he’s the type to ask questions rather than give answers. People who ask questions are better equipped to cling to their beliefs, body and soul.

— That’s all you’ve got to reassure us?

— It’s not nothing. For the rest, I have faith. 

Silence and shared glances.