The Goutte d’Or district of Paris got its name from the
white wine (the ‘drop of gold’) that used to be made there. Zola set his novel l’Assommoir here with Gervaise and Lantier, as poor migrants from Marseille,
arriving in the rapidly-growing district to take up occupations as a
washerwoman and a roofer – and watching the growing wealth of the rest of the
city from their slum apartment. The
history of the Goutte d’Or is the history of migration into Paris – in the
post-war years Berbers from Algeria, Haïtians, people from France’s West Indian
départements, migrants from the
French speaking countries of sub-Saharan Africa, and most recently a few Tamils
and Sri Lankans. Today to many Parisians
the Goutte d’Or is a ‘no-go’ area associated with Islamicisation, drugs, petty
crime and a general air of danger. For
tourists, Trip Adviser ranks it as 815th in its list of ‘things to
do in Paris’, out of a total of 995 ‘sights’, although the French-language
‘Routard’ guide web site does suggest a visit to the district but in its
secondary list of interesting neighbourhoods.
I got to know the area well in the 1980s and the 1990s, and wrote
about it in several articles and book chapters I published at the time – as one
of the most iconic migrant districts of a modern European city. I have just been back to revisit the area
after a gap of several years.
It is undeniable that in the 1980s the Goutte d’Or had some
of the worst housing conditions in Paris.
City council plans passed in 1983 envisaged massive slum clearance
programmes and the construction of modern blocks of social housing flats. The plans also envisaged the transformation
of the petty commerce of the area into something more modern. A striking feature of the planning documents
of the period was the absence in the artists’ illustrations of the future of
any sign of the North or Black African presences that dominated the area: all
the new residents and users of the district were to be white, and generally
young, with no-one in the exotic dress of the Togolese or Cameroonians (male or
female), no one wearing the Islamic veil, and no old Berber men leaning on
their sticks. The image was of the
‘reclamation’ (perhaps it was to be the ‘reconquest’) of the area by majority
white French society.
But the local representative in the National Assembly –
Lionel Jospin, a distinguished member of the socialist party who later rose to
be Prime Minister – ensured that existing local interests in the neighbourhood
were strongly involved in the renovation projects, especially along the rue de
la Goutte d’Or itself. The degree of
sensitivity to the needs and interests of the immigrant (‘ethnic minority’
being a phrase that is not acceptable in France) communities has been
unusual. The Socialists have
continuously represented the area, including the period between 1993 and 1997
when this was the only Socialist-held National Assembly seat in the whole of
Paris. Some (but by no means all) of the
slums are now gone, but the level of population displacement that has occurred
has been relatively small. Yes: there
are elements of gentrification but they are few. Nevertheless it seems to me that there have
been profound changes in the Goutte d’Or that have come about organically
through competition between different groups.
Something of an ethnographic description of my recent visits may
illuminate what the Goutte d’Or is like today, how it has changed, and what
remains the same.
Streets in the Goutte d'Or (taken from a Michelin map)
It is a Wednesday so I start off by walking the length of
the market held twice a week (Saturday morning is the other occasion) under the
tracks of metro line 2 (the métro
aérienne). It is much as I
remembered it – although less crowded (it is August and, as usual in this
month, the ‘real bits’ of Paris – not the tourist areas – seem half empty). The mix of stalls is familiar – fruit and
vegetables, meat (but no pork), fish, clothes and shoes at very cheap prices,
minor pieces of hardware and household equipment. There is one stall selling ‘artisanal honey’
but it seems out of place. I am one of
the few whites present. Stallholders are
calling their wares – many of them using Arabic to do so. The dominant clientele is North African, with
a number of elderly couples shopping together although much of the food
purchasing is being done by the men: there are some ‘black’ Africans present
but not as many as I will see later.
Twenty-five years ago there used to be what was known as a
‘thieves’ market’ (marché aux voleurs)
on the same spot in the early evening most days. I am surprised to come across something of
the same happening mid-morning on the bridge over the main railway lines into
the Gare du Nord. Several people have
laid out a few odd items on the ground – a bottle of hand cream, a watch, a
child’s jumper, a small packet of tissues - and a few passers-by pause to see
what is on offer. But later on the same
day, after the market has gone, I find much stronger informal trading going on,
just as it did in the past, under the metro arches just east of
Barbès-Rochechouart station. And there is
a big crowd involved. Why three police officers
have decided to arrest one youth rather than questioning many of the others is
not clear to me. I have always suspected
that much of what is for sale is not actually stolen but ‘retrieved’ from skips
and rubbish being thrown out, or consists of items being sold singly having
been bought in bulk.
On the corner of the rue de Tombouctou two hammams face each
other – but whilst that for women is obviously open and active, that for men is
closed and seems to have been so for some time.
I set off up rue de Chartres, beyond the upper end of which the Sacré
Cœur basilica establishes a Christian presence looking down on an otherwise
Islamic neighbourhood. But both early in
the morning and later in the day, at what has always been the busiest time
(between six and eight in the evening), I am surprised how few people there are
around. I have memories of street
sellers offering bundles of mint for fresh tea; of goods being piled in the
street outside food shops without window displays; of big groups of old men
leaning on their sticks, watching the passers-by and involved in long and deep
discussions; and of a constant bustle of activity and crowds. I remember being one of the few whites on the
street. Everything now seems watered
down – almost sanitised in the way those slum clearance plans of the 1980s
envisaged. Yes: most people on the
street are North African (although there are a few Tamils too), but there are
also single young white women walking through on their way from office jobs,
earphones in place as they follow the soundtrack of their lives. In rue des Gardes there are new designer
clothing shops, obviously part of a planning initiative since they all have
street signs in the same style, and at least one of these is run by a
Portuguese. (The Sicilian tailor who
used to have a small workshop in the next road has disappeared.) But the Ammar butchers that used to have
sheep heads in its display cabinet is still there – although the display is now
of chicken.
Here and there throughout this southern end of the district
there are infills of new buildings replacing the old slums, particularly on rue
de la Goutte d’Or, but the overall built feel of the quarter seems unchanged –
there has been little remodelling of roads and the constructions (although
presenting a texture of concrete instead of brick to the world) are in keeping
with the massing of the slums they replaced – but seem likely to be labelled
slums themselves within a few decades.
And one nice development is of a well-equipped but small urban park on
the rue Léon, where I remember some of the worst slum housing of the district.
As I walk north I notice much greater changes. I remember this as an area of great diversity
– a mixture of North African and West African residents and commerce, along
with some white French, particularly along the two streets with impressive
Haussmannian housing and paired names – rue de Suez and rue de Panama. I occasionally visited a small Turkish
restaurant in rue Myrha. Whilst the
western edge of this area, near boulevard Barbès, was always busy, the
north-eastern area, towards rue Stephenson (named after the British
railway-builder) was much quieter and more residential (and had some of the
worst slums).
What strikes me most is that this whole area now moves to an
Afro-Caribbean rhythm. Looking at French
web sites since my visit I find they refer to it as an ‘African’ area – but it
is more than that: there is plenty of commerce that labels itself as ‘Haïtian’
or ‘Antillais’ (referring to France’s Caribbean possessions): I will stick with
the Afro-Caribbean label, even though it is not a concept that would be
recognised locally.
Certainly there is a new large Islamic centre at the
northern end of rue Stephenson which brings a crowd of male predominantly North
Africans to the street at the time of evening prayers. But the cafés opposite are Afro-Caribbean
run. This Islamic centre is an important
response, supported by the local administration, to the previous problem of an
under-provision of prayer facilities locally which, in the past, had led to rue
Polonceau further south having to be closed for Friday prayers to allow
worshippers at the mosque there to spill out and set up their prayer mats in
the road. An imam was shot in rue Myrha in
1995, apparently for refusing to support the translation of jihad to France, and I wonder how that
assassination is now thought of in the area – but that’s a question for another
time. One other thing I notice in rue
Stephenson, and again this indicates some ‘official’ concern for the Goutte
d’Or, is a group of older women waiting at a bus stop: there was no bus service
within the Goutte d’Or when I got to know it 25 years ago.
Every other street I stroll along in the northern part of
the quarter − which actually makes up 75% of it – is now
effectively ‘black’. In the early
evening where further south there were a few whites, here there are none other
than me. And the most interesting thing
to me is the way things are being sold.
Yes: there are shops – many of which indicate that they are specialists
in one product but which actually cover a peculiar diversity of goods. But it is the street selling that is most
notable. A stretch of over 200 metres of
rue des Poissonniers is occupied by individuals selling aubergines, or shirts,
or particularly sweetcorn, from a couple of boxes one standing on its side
supporting the other. And on the corner of
rue Poulet (‘Chicken Street’) there are perhaps 20 women selling individual
items in this way. But this does not
have the feel of the ‘thieves’ market’ at Barbès metro. For a start there are more women than men
selling, and there is none of the feel of subversion that is pervasive further
south. And in addition to the street
sellers there are men who have improvised barbecues for corn-on-the-cob in
supermarket trolleys, with glowing charcoal in a large tin at the front and the
yet-to-be-cooked corn behind. And they
are doing a good trade.
Street trading in rue des Poissonniers - August 2016
Strictly speaking the permanent market in the rue Dejean
lies outside the Goutte d’Or quarter but functionally it is an essential
element of the neighbourhood. This is
the place now where North Africa meets the Afro-Caribbean world. And I know from press reports that it has
been a place of some tension. Indeed in the
morning I see something of that when I come across a fight between several men
– apparently set off by a knocked-over crate of figs. This market (the stalls are actually
extensions of the shops into the street) used to have a mixture of stallholders
including white French – and the customers were similarly mixed. Today it is entirely dominated by communities
of migrant origin, but I watch as Islamic women wearing the veil buy meat from
stalls that advertise the halal nature of their offerings but which also sell
pork steaks. Several stalls specialise
in varieties of fish one doesn’t normally see in a French market − and the customers for these are almost exclusively
Afro-Caribbean. Down the middle of the
market there are, as elsewhere in the early evening, the impromptu stalls set
up by those selling single products – generally fruit or vegetables.
Throughout this part of the neighbourhood there are signs,
flags, posters and other indications of the diversity of regional origins of
those present. Togo, Mali, the Congo, Cameroon, Haïti, Martinique, the Comores,
Chad and other French-speaking areas are all indicated – and I can hear more
French in retail transactions than I could in the market under the Barbès metro
line in the morning. But I also see
signs proclaiming Ghanaian, Gambian and other West African origins from areas
that were never French colonies. The
travel agent’s window on rue des Poissonniers is entirely taken up with
well-ordered notices comparing the prices offered by major airlines to a huge
diversity of African destinations, each embellished with the flag of the
country concerned. And on the corner
with rue de Suez I notice a pharmacy (actually it calls itself a ‘parapharmacy’
which possibly means the staff are not fully qualified) specialising in
products for ‘peaux noirs ou métisses’ (‘black
or mixed race skins’). The only
non-Afro-Caribbean elements here are one or two small shops run by Chinese, and
a few Tamil street sellers or porters of goods on barrows (although the delivery
lorry that blocks the street for some minutes has a white driver).
My final stretch back to the metro takes me down rue des Poissonniers
onto boulevard Barbès. My memory is of
two dominant kinds of goods for sale along here – jewellery, and luggage. What has happened today to all those shops
selling the brightest gold necklaces, bangles and rings, all in 24 carat (but
therefore soft) gold? Such jewellery was
an investment rather than to be worn everyday, and the purchasers were
predominantly North African. Where I
remember a dozen or more such shops there are now only a couple left. On the other hand there are still several
luggage retailers, but once again fewer than I knew 25 years ago. (I bought a cheap folding canvas hold-all
here then which is still as good as new, and known to my family as the ‘Goutte
d’Or bag’.) But what is new are the
mobile phone shops – particularly offering deals with Lycamobile which
specialises in cheap international calls.
I lose count of such shops on my way down to the metro.
We are now some decades beyond the period when most migrants
from North and West Africa arrived in France.
To what extent have telephone conversations supplanted, or simply
augmented, visits back to family in Africa taking remittances back in the form
of gold jewellery? Would the links today
to Bamako, or Conakry, or Abidjan be as strong now if it were not for the
mobile phone? Certainly a lot of people
in the streets are talking on their mobiles as they walk, but I don’t know who,
or where, they are talking to.
Finally, back on boulevard de la Chapelle near the evening
‘thieves’ market’ I come across a couple of very up-market designer dress shops
offering the smartest of occasion wear for the Islamic woman – but the
assistants are outside talking as they have no clients. Have they missed a trick in setting up here
in what I observe as the declining North African market of the Goutte d’Or
instead of in St Denis or another suburb?
And as I climb the steps to the metro I realise that after a day spent
in the neighbourhood I have only been offered one slip of paper offering me the
assistance of a marabout or sorcerer
who can guarantee me success in my exams, the defeat of my enemies, and cures
for any sexual problems I may have.
Twenty or thirty years ago I would have collected a dozen or more such
slips in the course of a single hour’s visit.
The Goutte d’Or is a complex area with a fascinating history
and sociological profile. I have only
scratched the surface in a day spent back there after a gap of many years. And I have a lot of unanswered questions in
my mind about what has happened during that period, and why. If asked in 1990 I would have called it a mixed
neighbourhood with a dominantly North African area in the south. Today the Afro-Caribbean elements seem, to me
at least, to be dominant, with the North African declining. But it hasn’t changed as much as was
envisaged in those city plans of the 1980s for its redevelopment. Indeed, an image of the Goutte d’Or as an
‘immigrant’ district is probably a permanent feature in the mental maps of most
Parisians. To many it almost
certainly remains terra incognita
in real life – known through reputation and media reports rather than
experienced through the soles of the feet as I have just done.
