Before Our Dawn| ongoing

three

chapitre trois
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Marseille, France was a bustling port city, the air thick with the sounds of chatter and the smell of salt water mixed with diesel fuel. The city was alive with activity, with vendors shouting out their wares and people hustling about their business. Everywhere Isra looked, there was something new and different: towering cranes that hoisted crates and containers onto waiting trucks, the cries of seagulls overhead, and people of all shapes and sizes rushing to and fro on the docks. Men pushed carts loaded with goods, shouting in French and other languages as they worked. The streets were crowded with horse-drawn carts, automobiles, and people all jostling for space.

Despite its grittiness, there was a sense of romanticism to Marseille, a city that had stood as a gateway to the world for centuries.

Isra clung tightly to her mother's hand as they made their way down the gangplank and onto the concrete docks. Her father, who was usually calm and collected, seemed just as taken aback by the chaos of the port. He guided them through the throngs of people to the customs official who would inspect their papers, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd for any signs of danger. The screeching of tires, honking horns, and shouting vendors filled the air, and Isra couldn't help but feel a sense of unease.

The official was a middle-aged man, likely in his forties, with a stern expression and piercing grey eyes that seemed to stab right through them. He wore a dark uniform, with a high collar and shiny buttons that glimmered in the bright sun. His eyes seemed to scrutinize their family, as if he was trying to determine whether they were a nuisance attempting to worm their way into the country with false papers or whether they were a genuine family searching for a new beginning in France. The silence as he sifted through their passports was deafening, and Isra felt like they were being judged not according to the documents they presented, but their identities.

The relationship between the French people and Algerians was complex and fraught with tension. Algeria was a French colony, and the French government exerted significant control over the country and its people. The majority of French people viewed them as inferior and saw them as being in need of "civilizing."

It came as no surprise to Isra that the customs official would glance upon them with such indignation.

Finally, finding no flaw, the official handed back the papers, giving Tarek a curt nod before turning his attention to the next traveler.

"We'll go to the station now and take the next train to Paris. Do you have all your luggage?" Tarek asked them, opening his briefcase to tuck away their passports.

Isra nodded wordlessly, still clinging to her mother's gloved hand, the latter who answered her husband with a timid 'yes' and began to follow behind him.

They made their way down the busy streets, dodging street vendors and dodging the occasional carriage as they walked to the train station. Luckily for them, it wasn't further than a few blocks away, and Tarek insisted that the walk wouldn't take up a significant portion of their time.

The sun was shining, and the streets were filled with the sounds and smells of the bustling port city. The buildings were tall and imposing, with heavy stone facades and intricate carvings. Many of the buildings were adorned with balconies, with brightly colored flowers and greenery spilling over the railings. As they continued down the street, they passed by a small park, with lush green trees and benches. Children played on the swings, laughing and chasing each other. A man sat on a bench, reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar. Women donned colorful dresses and suits and wide-brimmed hats, going about their business. In Algiers, the buildings were white-washed and the streets were wide and open. The pace of life was much slower, and everyone seemed to know each other. Here, however, it seemed like time was a scarce resource and everybody was in a rush to make use of it.