A Lesson in Empathy at the Prefecture

I’ve maintained for a long time that travel and living abroad makes you a more empathetic person. It’s a mantra that everyone who’s done it understands, but sometimes there are days where you can feel the dial on your inner empathy compass tuning just a little more finely. I had one of those days yesterday.

There’s an institution in France called the Prefecture

It’s widely considered the most annoying, frustrating, and stressful part about going through the process to become a legal immigrant in France, and rightfully so. Simply put, it’s the government body that anyone who comes to France will at some point deal with if they want to stay in France. Though the system has made some headway in simplifying facets of its operations in (very) recent years, the core of the issue with this institution rests with its efficiency and planning.

As an American applying first for a student visa and currently in the midst of the visa renewal process, I enjoy a large buffer to the suckiness that is dealing with the slow-grinding gears of French administration. I hold a powerful passport, am white passing, could afford to take French classes that have since given me proficiency in a language that is notoriously unfriendly to foreigners, AND my partner is French.

All these advantages, and I still had issues

For example, I struggled to navigate the Prefecture web site, compiling a file to submit for application to renew the visa, and coming in person to ask questions at the prefecture.

Side note: Can you imagine if the only way to get an answer from a government agency in the US was to go to the city headquarters in person, sometimes blocking out entire mornings or afternoons just so you could get a concrete answer from a human person?

That’s a daily reality for immigrants in France. Every time I’m in the prefecture, I see older people, couples with strollers or multiple children, or sometimes single parents with their children in tow to wait in a place that makes a dentist’s waiting room look like a theme park.

Leaders around the world perpetuate the scapegoating of society’s most vulnerable (aka make up lies about them) and enjoy a visibility that imbues their rantings with a false taste of truth

Trust me, you don’t need more than fifteen minutes to be in this environment to realize that these people are not the enemy to society, but the so-called leaders and prominent public figures who cruelly dismiss and ridicule them very well might be. Because to be completely honest, it’s an uncomfortably pathetic environment to be in.

As I sit here typing this, I’m surrounded by a ring of windows that all currently have their blinds pulled down because it’s the employees’ lunch break. They break for a full hour and this is public information, but I am already one of fourteen people waiting to be the first to speak with someone about the status of their visa, or to submit paperwork. Wait, actually, there are fifteen people. The mother with the daughter who looks to be about four or five also has an infant on her lap who has apparently just woken up. She’s babbling happily to herself, as infants do, apparently entertained by the ugliness of the building around her.

And now: an intermission for me to pick up my renewed visa.

~30 seconds later~

Recap: I screwed up.

How: I brought a copy of an original document when I need the original. Don’t worry, I’m told they’re open all afternoon, so I can just go home, get the original, and come back. Never mind that I’ve already been waiting for an hour and I really don’t see why they need the original document—my new visa will render the old one null and void anyway. And yet, this is clearly my mistake. By now, I should know. Always, always bring the original documents. And copies. And translated copies. Just in case. As I stomp out of the prefecture, messaging a friend that I’ll be late meeting her for coffee, the baby starts to cry.

Thirty minutes later I return, and the 50 or so benches are now nearly full. There are more children, but miraculously none of them are crying. One little boy runs around rolling his little Hot Wheels car over the metal holes in the waiting chairs. It makes a little clanking sound that he clearly enjoys.

I stand and wait off to the side from the benches nearest to the window that handles my particular visa and receive a friendly wave of recognition from the guy working. It’s impossible not to shift uncomfortably with the knowledge that just being able to return twice in the same afternoon is a yet another privilege here.  

The student who was at the window when I arrived leaves and I motion to the girl next to me to go next

I’m pretty sure I arrived before her but bribing karma can’t hurt. She’s in and out in a jiffy and then it’s my turn. Round two. I present the original document and proof that I paid for the visa. I receive a plastic card that will function both as my ID and proof of residency in France for the next year. It’s my first official card in France because the first year, you just get an official page glued into your passport. But now I have my very own card.

The photo is appropriately hideous, like a first driver’s license, which is also weirdly affirming. It literally validates me and my existence in this country, a place I’ve come to because I want to, not because I need to. Receiving this information in the company of so many people is like taking an elated, celebratory first sip of beer and realizing the drink is flat.

I quietly thanked the person behind the counter, tucked the card into my wallet, and hurried past the dozens of people still awaiting their turn. At the front desk, I passed another line of people waiting to pass through security at the front and get into the waiting room.

I think it’s really easy to assume that when someone isn’t in their country of birth, it’s because they simply “don’t want” to be there

It also appears to be really difficult for people secure in the lives they lead in their country to imagine the types of situations that would drive someone to leave their home country. That’s why I wanted to write this post. To publish a reminder to myself and everyone that no matter how open-minded you think you are or are being, you can always be more so, and doing so could validate an entire hellish episode or series in their lives that you’ll never have any personal experience with.

Then again, maybe you will

Maybe someday you’ll find yourself in a stark and boring government office with officials who don’t speak your language and literally control your fate. Maybe someday you’ll feel your hands start trembling for no apparent reason while you shuffle your application documents into a neat pile. Maybe you’ll rehearse what you want to say, questions you want to ask, and answers to anticipated questions (all in a foreign language) and freeze when you can’t remember the translation for a certain word. Maybe you’ll get waved forward to a window and someone will speak to you so quickly that even if you do speak the language, your nerves overcome you and you stutter out a heavily accented reply riddled with grammatical errors. Maybe the person you’re working with won’t care and will continue talking at the same speed. In fact, they probably will.

No one will care that you’re doing your best and maybe that’s a feeling of helplessness we all could benefit from experiencing at some point in our lives.