The Old Harki: Escape from Algiers

Once upon a time there was an old Harki who lived in a little house on the outskirts of Paris. A Harki is an Algerian who fought with the French in the Algerian War for independence, between 1954 and 1962. The word Harki comes from the Arabic, and means “war party.”

In practical terms, Harki also means a man without a country. A man looked down upon, abandoned, spit on, and, in his day, tortured, imprisoned and, in tens of thousands of cases, cut down along with his family in his home or village. Many thousands escaped the carnage by fleeing to France – against France’s wishes.

The old Harki who lived in a little house outside Paris still lives there. His name is Serge Karel. That is not his birth name. His birth name is Arabic. But he abandoned it long ago, along with his country, in order to feel safe, if not welcome. In order to be able to live.

The Algerians won their war for independence from France, which meant that Serge Karel had fought for the losing side. He was for Algerian independence too, but not a bloody one. He joined the army out of a certain loyalty and out of family tradition. Even though France had been occupying his country for nearly 130 years, he felt gratitude toward the French. They’d provided for his family for two generations. His father had fought for the French during WWI and then became a civil servant, a forest ranger, under French rule. His two older brothers were also soldiers.

In the French army, Serge Karel became an expert in reconnaissance and learned how to shoot his gun faster than France’s enemies in the National Liberation Front, or FLN. He knew many people in the FLN. Everyone did. Almost all villages in Algeria saw some of their residents join the fight to push the colonizers out. Karel did not relish killing his countrymen – in fact, he respected their courage – but it was either him or them. The same dilemma all soldiers face on the battlefield.

During the Algerian war both the French and the FLN did horrible things to civilians. Both sides took revenge on entire families, even villages, shooting, torturing or cutting the throats of the wives, parents and children of enemy fighters. Serge Karel says he did not kill innocent people. Once he was even able to save the lives of the parents of one FLN fighter.

His French captain had ordered the couple shot, to avenge the loss of some of his men. Serge Karel spoke up. He told the captain that the two elderly Algerians were simply caught in the crossfire of the conflict, afraid not to help the FLN and afraid not to help the French. Both sides could kill you for refusing. What had this couple done, except have a child who grew up to fight for his cause, even if it was the wrong cause? But the captain refused to show mercy.

Serge Karel had one last idea. He told his captain that the mother of the FLN fighter often came to him with intelligence, offering information on the FLN’s movements. This was a lie. But it worked. The captain freed the couple, unharmed.

When the war ended the French gathered together the hundreds of thousands of Harkis and thanked them for their service. Then they took their weapons away and wished them luck. Serge Karel, standing at attention before the French command, thought it was a joke. Go home, their commanders said. You’re Algerians now. You have your own country.

But we can’t go home, the Harkis said. The FLN will kill us. And our families. There is a treaty to protect you, the French said. We want to come to France, the Harkis said, where we will be safe. You cannot, the French said. You are no longer French citizens.

The Harkis were loaded into trucks and driven to the main squares of cities and villages, where they were ordered out. Crowds gathered to see what was going on. The Harkis, terrified, took off in all directions, hopping buses and trains as fast as they could, usually to their home towns. Their hearts racing, their knees trembling. Serge Karel went to the house of some friends, afraid to bring trouble on his parents.

Besides, he was expecting to escape. His captain had told him he would sneak him into France. It was the least he could do. First the Frenchman had to wrap up his affairs. Then he’d come for his loyal Harki subordinate. Serge Karel waited. And waited. But his captain never reappeared.

Meanwhile the wholesale slaughter of the unarmed Harkis and their families had already begun. The FLN wanted them all dead.

One day not long after the French had left, Serge Karel was driving in a car when it was cut off by men carrying machine guns. They told him to get or they’d gun him down where he sat. Serge Karel was so scared that he did the stupidest thing he’d ever done. He ran. Running was death. He could hear the men yelling “Shoot him! Shoot him!” But the streets were too crowded. If they’d fired they would have killed innocent people along with their target. Serge Karel knew that he was getting lucky. He knew what a machine gun could do in a crowd. He’d fought in the war himself for five long years.

Now he was running for his life, barefoot, up a steep hill, weaving in and out of alleys, getting as lost as he could in the crowds. What am I doing? he thought. I’ll be caught like this. He flagged down a taxi. As the taxi sped away the driver asked him what was wrong. You are clearly very agitated about something, he said.

Serge Karel told him that he’d just learned that his father had died, and he needed to get to a certain village to retrieve his body. The taxi driver offered his condolences. But before they could leave the city they came to a military checkpoint. Luckily Serge Karel had removed the glasses he’d been wearing when he was first stopped, and he’d mussed up his hair. He made it through unrecognized.

They came to a second checkpoint. One of the original gunmen was there and recognized Serge Karel right away. He was taken away in handcuffs. For the next three months he was held in a jail with 50 other Harkis. His FLN captors tortured him daily. They beat him all over his body, and clipped off little slivers from the sides of his tongue with wire cutters. The wounds soon became infected and filled with puss so that he could only ingest water and soup. During the day he was made to dig the graves for his Harki colleagues who were killed in the night.

Soon there were only a few Harki left in the jail. Serge Karel was sure he was next on the list to die. Then a high-ranking officer from the FLN appeared at his cell. Do you know who I am? the officer said. Serge Karel, who could no longer speak, just shook his head. The officer said, You once saved my mother and father from a French firing squad. You lied and said that my mother had been helping you.

That was you? Serge Karel managed to say. Yes, the officer said. So now I am going to help you. Tonight I will leave your cell unlocked and distract the guards as best I can. You can walk out if you like. You can run. If you escape, you escape. If they shoot you in the back, that cannot be helped. All I can do is open your cell. The rest is up to you. And to chance.

That night Serge Karel ran. He ran up and over the mountains, mountains he knew well from the war, and made it to a small village where a friend lived. That same night his friend got him to the capital, hidden in his car, and delivered him to an aunt. Serge Karel stayed hidden in his aunt’s house for two years. It took that long for his torture wounds to heal.

During that time he was able to procure fake French documents on the Algerian black market. He saw for the first time his new French name, the name he would use longer even than the name his parents had given him. When he was well enough to walk he made his way to the port and onto a ship bound for France. His knees were trembling as he crossed the gangplank. If they refuse me boarding now, he thought, this is the end. The FLN won’t let me go twice. But no one raised an eyebrow.

That evening the ship set sail. Serge Karel climbed to the aft deck, alone, and looked back at Algiers, the whitewashed city illuminated against the blue sky, with the desert beyond. It was one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen. And he said to himself through his tears, I will never set foot there again.

Upon arriving in France Serge Karel learned to his surprise that he was scum. He learned this first from the French military, whom he sought out, hoping for help. They sent him to Paris to live in a homeless shelter, then to an internment camp filled with Harkis like himself who’d managed to sneak into France against General Charles de Gaulle’s wishes.

He was brought before a judge and told he could reapply for French citizenship. He agreed. She told him what it cost. He said he had no money. No money? she said. Then go home to your own country. But France abandoned me, Serge Karel said. You should be ashamed twice. Once for leaving us to die in ‘62, and a second time for this camp. Serge Karel eventually got his French citizenship.

The first thing he did was to seek out his former French commanders. He found the very house of his captain, the man who’d told him to wait, that he’d get him out of Algeria alive. When the officer opened the door he went pale. He’d thought Serge Karel, whom he knew only by his Arabic name, was long dead. He told him he’d tried to come back but, in the confusion of the withdrawal, it had proven impossible. The captain helped find Serge Karel a job, gave him some money from time to time, until he was on his feet. Gestures Serge Karel is grateful for to this day.

The Harki set out to build a new life. But it was tough. He was despised as a traitor by the many Algerians who’d come to France to work after independence, and looked down upon by the French themselves who perhaps saw in him a shameful reminder of their nation’s savage behavior in North Africa. Serge Karel was marginalized from all sides, and unable to return home to Algeria even if he’d wanted to.

Still, he eventually found work, got married, had a family. He has lived in peace now for nearly a half century, despite the painful memories and the unshakeable stigma he bears even in his old age. Despite being unable to forgive his adopted country.

On a recent day he agrees to come to Paris from his little village outside the capital, and he arrives in a smart shirt and coat. He tells his story again, for the millionth time probably, wishing he could remember none of it, he says, but knowing that that is impossible. He tells it again, he says, because France has still not explained herself.

He says he once went to Charles de Gaulle’s tomb, to ask the late general some questions. Why did you abandon us in Algeria? Why have you mistreated us in France? Through tears he says he has lived without answers. But he says he still has hope. Hope that France will officially take responsibility for leaving the Harkis to die like animals back in 1962. Responsibility for treating them second class citizens all these years.

He even hopes he’ll cross paths with de Gaulle himself, once he too is dead. He says maybe then the general will have no choice but to explain himself.

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