Visiting the home of a beggar: a refugee from Homs-Syria

Last Thursday I had an appointment with a high profile Muslim for an interview I am planning to publish in the near future. We made our appointment at the St. Denis cathedral. She was a little late, so I took the opportunity to enter the cathedral. Saint Denis is the legendary patron saint of Paris and France. He was martyred on presumably a druid holy site in today's Montmartre.                           

The church was tranquil and cool, a nice place to shelter from the heat and the blazing sun outside.

After the interview I headed to the St. Lazare station. There I met Turkieh, a begger from Homs - Syria. She couldn't speak any other language then Arabic. Her son stood next to her, a strong kid of around 12 years old, holding a big bag. I told her I could help her by connecting her to one of my friends in Paris who is a social worker. Turkieh gave me a hug. She was an aimable woman who worked hard to let her family survive. She asked if I wanted to visit her in her home. I accepted the invitation upon which she closed down her temporarily begging stall. Bags were lifted, she put on her shawl and her son got the instruction to buy the metro tickets. A few halts later we arrived in what seemed to be a Syrian stronghold in Paris. Ladies carrying babies on the streets greeted Turkieh, a little girl came running to her to receive a hug; her daughter. We neared her home and entered into what seemed to be a makeshift Syrian hotel lobby. Then when we climbed the shallow stairs, the smell of home-cooked Arabic food filled the space. We arrived at the home of Turkieh. Her friendly husband took care of their four children, while she worked. Ironically women excel more then men in the begging profession, so this traditional family had to adapt to necessity: the wife was the provider and the husband was the housekeeper. 

The room was small, but provided enough space for the family. There was one double-bed; the whole family had to sleep in it. On the floor a plastic carpet. And nothing else. For the room without running water, toilet, shower or kitchen, they had to pay 55 euro's a night.

I was shocked that refugee families had to live this way, right in the heart of democratic Europe. Turkieh said she waited on her permit, until then she had to survive on her own.

I asked if I could take a picture of her and her home. She refused, afraid of the consequences. She trusted me, but didn't trust the internet. 

We gave each other one last hug at the train-station. When she walked away I took a picture of her back, she turned around and smiled: "that is ok, you can use that one". It turned to be my last memory of Turkieh, the hospitable friendly lady from Homs.