Vergennes
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Latifa Ibn Ziaten travels all over France to tell the story of her son’s murder by a terrorist
At 4pm on March 11 2012, in Toulouse, my son Imad, a paratrooper in the French army, was shot dead by Mohammed Merah. He was the first of Merah’s seven victims and the first to be killed in a wave of Islamist terror attacks in France. He died standing up — he was told to lie face down but refused.
We were very close; he would call me all the time. At the morgue, I promised him I would do everything to understand why he was killed. After 40 days of mourning, I went to the place where he died in case he had left something behind for me. But there was only bloodstains. So I went to the poor neighbourhood where his murderer came from. I wanted to understand why a 23-year-old had become a killer. I met a group of young men who said that Merah was a martyr and a hero. When I introduced myself, they apologised. One held my hands. He told me, “Look around, this is where we live. We have no future.” I told them they needed to work to lift those barriers. The young man said, “I’m 25. When I go out in the morning, my mother tells me she wishes me gone forever. It’s too late.”
I thought those youngsters were at the root of my suffering, but I needed to reach out to them. Since then, I have been visiting schools — state, private — and prisons. I attend conferences and travel to cities across France to tell my story. I set up a non-profit organisation in partnership with the state; we’re raising funds to send children from the banlieues on trips abroad.
Some criticise me because I talk about religion. But the important thing to me is to find a way to engage with these children. If a child has a question on Islam, I have to give him or her an answer. I have no written speeches; I am not a politician. I talk about my suffering, my values, citizenship, secularism, democracy.
I adjust to each audience. When I sense defiance, I start by asking if they feel French. In immigrant areas, most reply, “No, I am Algerian,” for example. So my next question is, “Where were you born? In France? Then you’re French, young man. Algeria is your parents’ country of origin but it doesn’t define you fully.”
I will never forget where I’m from. I was born in Tétouan, Morocco, but my children were born in France. I’ve always wanted to do everything like French women. They taught me a lot: how to ride a bike, how to cook pot-au-feu, how to find cheap food . . . I take my children back to Morocco to share how I lived. These two cultures are an asset, not a burden. I tell those youngsters to start their personal engine, that they will go further than they think.
Recently, I met a boy who was close to going to Syria. His single mother of six had got sick and was refused a ground-floor apartment by the state. He felt helpless seeing his mother climbing the stairs because the lift was broken. We talked a lot and he changed his mind. I told him his mother would be devastated if he left. Help her here instead, I said. Some youngsters tell me, “The republic has let me down.” I say: “Why should the republic give you anything? What did you bring to the republic?”
Some in France wonder why I wear a veil. Two men even insulted me in the National Assembly. I was shocked. In 40 years in France, I had never been treated like that. I don’t see why I have to justify myself. I started wearing it after Imad’s death. And then I couldn’t take it off. A mother who has lost a child never stops mourning.
Since 2012, I have sounded the alarm bell. I warned the French government that there were plenty of other Merahs. President François Hollande, who awarded me the Légion d’Honneur, does everything he can. But we all need to act at our own level too. In schools, in prisons, in the street. It starts with respect, with the eyes and a smile.
https://www.ft.com/content/9f472b72-bc09-11e6-8b45-b8b81dd5d080
-
Latifa Ibn Ziaten travels all over France to tell the story of her son’s murder by a terrorist
At 4pm on March 11 2012, in Toulouse, my son Imad, a paratrooper in the French army, was shot dead by Mohammed Merah. He was the first of Merah’s seven victims and the first to be killed in a wave of Islamist terror attacks in France. He died standing up — he was told to lie face down but refused.
We were very close; he would call me all the time. At the morgue, I promised him I would do everything to understand why he was killed. After 40 days of mourning, I went to the place where he died in case he had left something behind for me. But there was only bloodstains. So I went to the poor neighbourhood where his murderer came from. I wanted to understand why a 23-year-old had become a killer. I met a group of young men who said that Merah was a martyr and a hero. When I introduced myself, they apologised. One held my hands. He told me, “Look around, this is where we live. We have no future.” I told them they needed to work to lift those barriers. The young man said, “I’m 25. When I go out in the morning, my mother tells me she wishes me gone forever. It’s too late.”
I thought those youngsters were at the root of my suffering, but I needed to reach out to them. Since then, I have been visiting schools — state, private — and prisons. I attend conferences and travel to cities across France to tell my story. I set up a non-profit organisation in partnership with the state; we’re raising funds to send children from the banlieues on trips abroad.
Some criticise me because I talk about religion. But the important thing to me is to find a way to engage with these children. If a child has a question on Islam, I have to give him or her an answer. I have no written speeches; I am not a politician. I talk about my suffering, my values, citizenship, secularism, democracy.
I adjust to each audience. When I sense defiance, I start by asking if they feel French. In immigrant areas, most reply, “No, I am Algerian,” for example. So my next question is, “Where were you born? In France? Then you’re French, young man. Algeria is your parents’ country of origin but it doesn’t define you fully.”
I will never forget where I’m from. I was born in Tétouan, Morocco, but my children were born in France. I’ve always wanted to do everything like French women. They taught me a lot: how to ride a bike, how to cook pot-au-feu, how to find cheap food . . . I take my children back to Morocco to share how I lived. These two cultures are an asset, not a burden. I tell those youngsters to start their personal engine, that they will go further than they think.
Recently, I met a boy who was close to going to Syria. His single mother of six had got sick and was refused a ground-floor apartment by the state. He felt helpless seeing his mother climbing the stairs because the lift was broken. We talked a lot and he changed his mind. I told him his mother would be devastated if he left. Help her here instead, I said. Some youngsters tell me, “The republic has let me down.” I say: “Why should the republic give you anything? What did you bring to the republic?”
Some in France wonder why I wear a veil. Two men even insulted me in the National Assembly. I was shocked. In 40 years in France, I had never been treated like that. I don’t see why I have to justify myself. I started wearing it after Imad’s death. And then I couldn’t take it off. A mother who has lost a child never stops mourning.
Since 2012, I have sounded the alarm bell. I warned the French government that there were plenty of other Merahs. President François Hollande, who awarded me the Légion d’Honneur, does everything he can. But we all need to act at our own level too. In schools, in prisons, in the street. It starts with respect, with the eyes and a smile.
https://www.ft.com/content/9f472b72-bc09-11e6-8b45-b8b81dd5d080
