Provence, year zero

I often see again the hills of my childhood. The smell of thyme and scrubland. The hunters’ huts along the Chemin des Fourches. The petrochemical plant on the edge of the lagoon, which we learned to erase from the landscape.

I once dreamed of developing this territory. Drawing a road here, placing a park there. I wanted to make the streets of Marseilles safer, to increase young people’s participation in assemblies, to make people believe in Europe.

I imagined I would be different from the indifferent, from those who see no further than their back-and-forth between home and work. Yet I have to admit it was my own path that ended up occupying my thoughts.

I replaced the hills with skyscrapers, the mouth of the Rhône with that of the Hudson. My landscapes became as abstract as contemporary paintings. I grew interested in the greatest upheavals, accustomed to playing a minor role in a major play, reassured that Provence too would benefit from the digital revolution, from social networks, and from AI.

Twelve years of skyscrapers later, I remain fixated on my native Provence and its unfinished projects.

Marseilles has become a cultural capital and a refuge for burned-out Parisians, but it still weighs too little in the national economy.

Drugs are traded more than ever.

Our countryside has filled with tour buses and second homes.

Everywhere, the cultural influence of the United States is overwhelming; the golden arches have multiplied.

Our home deserves better.

When I dream, I imagine many things.

I see clean jobs in organic agriculture, agro-tourism, forest management, high-tech industry, and the digital sector. Petrochemical plants torn down, vast commercial zones abolished.

I imagine a new local commerce supplied by the region’s fine farms. An active port, welcoming seafood, goods from all over the world, and tourists.

I imagine a region reconciled with its historical immigration, integrated and peaceful communities, proud of their origins and proud to live in France.

I see young people in this culturally macho country grow up without fear of being sidelined because of their sexuality. I see them succeed without mockery from peers.

I imagine the roofs of factories and warehouses covered with solar panels. Frequent and safe buses and trains.

And upon arrival at Marseilles airport, something more local than the Starbucks or McDonald’s billboards that greet visitors today.

Provence has nothing to envy California; it should be able to surpass it in every respect.

Work there should pay far more than all social benefits combined.

Skilled workers should want to settle there to innovate in the sunshine.

Taxes should fund public infrastructure without discouraging risk-taking.

Immigration should be controlled through quotas.

Universities should partner with the country’s major companies and support research.

All this may be nothing more than the dream of a child who left too quickly, a dream as old as the hills that saw me grow up.

If I projected my promises onto another continent, perhaps it was so that one day I could keep those I had made to my own.