🌛 A Celle Qui Est Restée En France What can he mean?

Dun drame sourd, longtemps resté dans l’angle mort des politiques et de la société, comme l’observent nos deux reporters, Dorothée Werner et Catherine Robin, dans notre dossier page 74. Pour qu’un tabou se brise, il faut accepter d’en entendre l’horreur. Et pour l’entendre, il faut des voix fortes : celle de Brigitte Macron, qui est sortie de sa réserve pour parler de cette

To the one who stayed in France I Sit up, lift your eyes, disturb This icy sheet that makes folds on your angel's forehead, Open your hands, and take this book it's yours. This book where my soul lives, hope, mourning, dream, fear, This book which contains the specter of my life, My anguish, my dawn, alas! crying followed, The shadow and its hurricane, the rose and its pistil, This azure, sad, stormy book, where does it come from? Where does the pale flash that tears the mist come out? For four years, I have lived in a whirlwind of foam; This book sprang from it. God dictated, I wrote; Because I am straw in the wind. Go ! said the spirit. I go. And, when I had finished these pages, when this book Began to throb, to breathe, to live, A church in the fields, green with ivy, Whose tower strikes the hour in my nothingness, said to me Your song is finished; give it to me, poet. "I am asking for it," said the worried forest; And the soft flowery meadow said to me - Give it to me. The sea, seeing him quiver, said to me - Why Do not throw it at me, since it is a sail! "This hymn belongs to me," said the star. "Give it to us, thoughtfully," cried the high winds. And the birds said to me - Won't you go to the living? Offer this book, hatched so far from their quarrels? Let us take it to our nests on our wings! - But the wind will not have my book, O deep skies! Nor the wild sea, given over to black typhoons, Opening and closing its waves, bitter pitfalls; Nor the green forest filled with the noise of beehives; Nor the church where time turns its compass; The meadow will not have it, the star will not have it, The bird will not have it, whether it is an eagle or a dove, The nests will not have it; I give it to the grave. II Once when September in tears returned, I was leaving, I was leaving everything that knows me, I was escaping; Paris was fading; nothing nobody ! I was going, I was just a shivering shadow, I fled, alone, without seeing, without thinking, without speaking, Knowing well that I would go where I had to go; Alas! I could not even have said I am suffering! And, as if under the pull of an abyss, That the road was beautiful, rainy, cold, bad, I didn't know, I walked in front of me, I arrived. O memories! O horrible form of the hills! And, while mother and sister, orphans, Cried in the house, I was looking for the black lieu With the mournful greed of despair; Then I went to the sad field next to the church; Bare head, with slow steps, the hair in the wind, With my eye to the heavens, I drew near; overwhelming sustains; The trees whispered It's the father who is coming! The brambles parted their withered branches; I walked through the humble leaning crosses, Saying I do not know what sweet and funereal words; And I knelt in the middle of the branches On the stone that we see white in the greenery. Why did you sleep so hard That you didn't hear when I called you? And the fishermen passed by dragging their nets, And said What then is this man who dreams? And the day, and the evening, and the shadow that grows longer, And Venus, which for me once sparkled, Everything was gone that I was still there. I was there, begging the one who answers us; I loved, I let fall on this pit, Alas! where I had seen my skies vanish, All my heart drop by drop in silent tears; I was stripping sage and clematis; I remembered her when she was little, When she brought me lilies and jasmines, Or when she took my quill in her hands, Cheerful, and laughing at having ink on his pink fingers; I breathed the flowers on this blossoming ash, I fixed my gaze on those cold green lawns, And at times, oh God, I saw, through The stone of the tomb, like a soul glow! Yes, long ago, when that hour of mourning that calls out for me Ringed in the sad sky and in my bleeding heart, Nothing was holding me back, and I was going; now, Alas! ... - O river! oh wood! valleys where I was the guest, She knows, doesn't she? that it's not my fault If, for these four years, poor torchless heart, I did not go to pray at his tomb! III So this dark path that I was walking, this marble That I was gazing, pale, leaning against a tree, This tomb on which my feet could walk, The night, which I saw slowly approaching, These yews, this twilight with this cemetery, These sobs, which at least fell on this stone, O my God, it was all happiness! Say, what have you been doing all this time? - Lord, What did she do ? - Do you see life in your homes? What shadow clock did you count the hours on? Did you noiselessly sometimes push the other one asleep? And are you, waiting for me, half awake? Are you, pale, leaning against the dark window From infinity, seeking in the shadows to recognize A passer-by, through the black coffin badly joined, Attentive, listening if you didn't hear Someone walking towards you in dark eternity? And did you go back to bed like a sinking mast, By saying What is it? my father is not coming! Have you both spoken to me in a whisper? How many times have I chosen, all wet with dew, Lilies in my garden, lilies in my mind! How many times have I plucked hawthorn in bloom! How many times have I looked for the tower of Harfleur over there, Murmuring It's tomorrow that I'm leaving! and, stupid, I calculated the wind and the fast sail, Then my hand opened sadly, and I said Everything is fleeing! And the bouquet fell, sinister, in the night! Oh ! how many times, feeling that she had to wait for me, I took what was most tender in my heart To charge someone who would pass by there! Lazarus opened his eyes when Jesus called him; When I speak to him, alas! why is she closing them? Where would be the evil then when the deadly shadow Love would violate the dark secret twice, And when, what a god did, a father would? IV Let this book, at least, obscure message, come, Murmur, to this silence, and, flood, to this shore! Let him fall there, sob, sigh, tear of love! May he enter this sepulcher where once entered The kiss, the youth, and the dawn, and the dew, And the adored laughter of the new bride, And the joy, and my heart, which did not come out! May it be the cry of hope that never lied, The song of mourning, the voice of pale weeping farewell, The dream of which we feel the wing brushing against us! Let her say Someone is there; I hear noise! May it be like the step of my soul in its night! This book, revolving legion and without number White birds in the dawn and black birds in the shadows, This flight of memories fleeing on the horizon, This swarm that I unleash on the threshold of my prison, I entrust it to you, air, breaths, cloud, space! That this wild ocean which speaks to me in a low voice, Him be lenient, save and let it pass! And let the wind take care not to disperse it, And until the cold cellar faithfully brings This mysterious gift from the absent to the dead! O God! since in fact, in these dark pages, In those stanzas that I gathered in the depths of your skies, In these songs whispered like an epithalamus While you were turning the pages of my soul, Since I have recorded my days in this book, My ailments, my mourning, my cries in deaf problems, My loves, my work, my life hour by hour; Since you don't want me to die yet, And yet I must go talk to him; Since I feel the wind of infinity blowing On this book filled with storm and mystery; Since I have poured there all your shadows, earth, Humanity, pain, of which I am the passer-by; Because of my mind, of my heart, of my blood, I made the pungent perfume of these funeral verses, Go away, book, to the azure, through the darkness! Flee into the mist where everything slowly is led! Yes, let him fly to the pit, to the grave, to the night, Like a tree leaf or like the soul of a man! Let him roll into the abyss where all that the voice names goes! May he fall deep into the haggard sepulcher, Beside her, oh death! and that there, the gaze, Near the sleeping angel, luminous and sublime, The blossoming way, dark flower of the abyss! V O sweet beginnings of azure which deceived me, O happiness! I have atoned for you severely! I have the right today to be, when night falls, One of those who are heard from the grave, And who do, speaking to the pale and lonely dead, Slowly stir the black folds of the shrouds, And whose words, harsh or tender, move the stones, The grains in the furrows, the shadows in the beers, The wave and the cloud, and becomes a voice Of nature, as well as the murmur of the woods. Because there, isn't it, tombs? many years, May I walk among the unfortunate crosses, Hairless among the yews and the cypresses, Soul on the edge of the night, and approaching me very close, And as I go, bent over the austere coffin, Questioning the lead, the nails, the earthworm Who for me comes out of the eyes of the skull, The skeleton that laughs, the skeleton that bites, Hands with gnarled fingers, skulls, dust, And the bones of the knees that know prayers! Alas! I searched everything. I wanted to see the bottom. Why does the evil in us with the good merge, I wanted to know. I said What are we to believe? I dug the light, and the dawn, and the glory, The joyful child, the virgin and her chaste fear, And love, and life, and soul, - gravedigger. What have I learned? I thoughtfully grasped everything without taking anything; I saw a lot at night and made a lot of ash. Who are we ? what does this word mean Always? I have buried everything, dreams, hopes, loves, In the pit I dug in my chest. Who has science? where is the doctrine? Oh ! why am I not yet the dreamer of the past, That strayed in the grass, and the meadows, and the woods, Who walked smiling, in the evening, when the sky is shining, Holding her daughter's small white hand, And who, joyful, letting the firmament shine, Letting the child speak, slowly felt Fill with this azure and this innocence! Between God who blazes and the angel who incenses him, I lived, I fought, without fear, without remorse. Then my door suddenly opened to death, This abrupt and terrible visit from the shadows. You pass by leaving the void and the rubble, O specter! you grab my angel and knock. A tomb was therefore the goal of all my steps. VI I cannot resume today in the plain My old path which descends towards the Seine; I can no longer go where I was going; I can not, Like the washer sitting by the well, Than lean against the wall of the eternal abyss; Paris is eclipsed to me by the enormous Solime; The high Notre-Dame now, which shines to me, It is the shadow having two towers, silence and night, And letting light pierce its fatal veils; And I see on my forehead a pantheon of stars; If I call Rouen, Villequier, Caudebec, All the shadows cry out to me Horeb, Kidron, Balbeck! And, if I go, stop at the first mile, And said to me Turn to the blue immensity! And said to me The roads where you walked are closed. Lean over the nights, the winds, the waves! What are you thinking about? what are you doing, lonely Do you think you still have the earth under your feet? Where are you going like this and automatically? O dreamer! lean on the being and the element! Listen to the rumor of souls on the air! Contemplate, if you need ashes, the worlds; At least look for the immense dust, if you want Mix dust with your dark hair, And look, outside of your own martyrdom, The great nothingness, if nothingness attracts you! Be all in these suns where you will ascend! Leave your vile corner of the earth there. Stretch out your arms O outlaw of the azure, towards the homelands! See your withered aurora blooming again; Become the big fixed eye open on the big whole. Lean on the enigma where the being dissolves, On everything that is born, lives, walks, dies, succumbs, On all mankind and on the whole grave! But my heart is still bleeding and on the same side. It is in vain that the heavens, the nights, the eternity, Want to distract a soul and calm an atom. All the glare of the dome lights Does he take away a tear? Ah! the extent is fine Talk to me, show me the universal tomb, The serene evenings, the dreamy woods, the friendly moon; I listen, and I return to the sleeping sweet. VII Flowers ! Oh ! if I had flowers! if I could Go sow lilies on these two cold bedside tables! If I could cover my pale angel with flowers! The flowers are gold, azure, emerald, opal! The coffin in the middle of the flowers wants to lie down; Flowers love death, and God makes them touch By their root to the bones, by their perfume to souls! Since I can't, in the places we loved, Since God does not want to let us come back, Since it makes us let go of what we thought we held, Since the cold fate, in my deep jail, On the first door seals a second, And, on the sad father and on the sleeping child, Close exile after closing death, Since it's impossible now that I throw Even a bit of heather in its silent pit, It's the least that she has my soul, isn't it? O black wind whose footsteps I hear on my ceiling! Storm, winter, which beat my window with your hail! Seas, nights! and I put her in this book for her! Take this book; and say to yourself this comes from the living That we left behind, dreaming. Take. And, although from afar, recognize my voice, soul! Oh ! your ashes are the bed of my remains of flame; Your grave is my hope, my charity, my faith; Your shroud still floats between life and me. Take this book, and bring out a divine psalm! May he become a ghost between your vague hands! May it turn white, like the fading dawn, As my angel's eye reads it, And he faints, and floats, and disappears, Like a dark hearth that a wandering breath caresses, Like a light that we see pass in the evening, Like a whirlwind of fire from the censer, And that, under your dazzling and dark gaze, Each page goes away in stars in the shadows! VIII Oh ! whatever we do and whatever we say, Let our soul soar in the wind of visions, Either she clings to the native clay, We always come to your fatal cave, Gethsemane! let a vague light shine! O rock of the strange and funereal sweat! Cave where the spirit fights fate! opening On the deep frights of dark nature! Den from which the lion comes out dreamily, seeing Someone more sinister and more frightening, Pain, enter, pale, bitter, disheveled! O fall! asylum! O threshold of the troubled valley From where we see our fleeting and short years, Our own footsteps marked in the mire of days, The ladder where evil weighs and climbs, suspicious specter, The harsh quivering of the fierce palm, The black degrees pulling down the white degrees, And the shivers on the foreheads of frightened angels! We always come to this loneliness, And, there, we are silent, feeling the fullness! Peace in the shade! Sleep! sleep! sleep! sleep! Beings, confused groups slowly transformed! Sleep, fields! sleep, flowers! sleep, graves! Roofs, walls, thresholds of houses, stones of the catacombs, Leaves at the bottom of woods, feathers at the bottom of nests, Sleep! sleep, blades of grass, and sleep, endless! Calm down, forest, oak, maple, ash, yeuse! Silence on the great religious horror, On the ocean that struggles and eats away at its bit, And on the unfathomable appeasement of the dead! Peace in the dreaded silent darkness, Peace to fearful doubt, to the immense atheist shadow, To you, nature, circle and center, soul and environment, Swarming of everything, solitude of God! O generations with hazy breaths, Rest ! not blacks who walk in the plains! Sleep, you who are bleeding; sleep, you who cry! Aches, pains, pains, close your sacred eyes! Everything is religion and nothing is a sham. That over all existence and every creature, Living on human breath or animal breath, Standing at the threshold of good, crumbling on the brink of evil, Tender or fierce, foul or splendid, humble or great, The vast peace of heaven on all sides descends! May the sleeping hells dream of paradise! Doze off, waves, seas, winds, souls, while That seated on the mountain in the presence of the Being, Precipice where we see pell-mell appear The creations, the star and the man, the axles Of those chariots of sun that we call the heavens, The globes, ruddy fruits of the divine branches, Silver comets in a black field strewn, White tears from the night's death sheet, The chaos, the winters, these dismal troubles, Pale, drunk with ignorance, dazzled by darkness, Seeing in infinity being written algebras, The beholder, sad and bruised, but serene, Measure the problem on the brazen walls, Seek to distinguish the dawn through the wonders, Leans, quivering, at the well of great dizziness, Follows the eye of passing whiteness, alcyons, And look, thoughtfully, staring with rays, Of light, of light, vaguely inflamed, The monstrous abyss full of enormous 2 novembre 1855, jour des morts. ^{Malgréles conquêtes révolutionnaires, les femmes restent largement exclues de la représentation démocratique au 19 e et au début du 20 e siècles. En 1848, le suffrage universel est instauré mais il reste masculin. Le mouvement suffragiste, mouvement féministe qui lutte à la veille de la Première Guerre mondiale, ne parvient pas à faire évoluer la situation malgré ses} ^{Droit du sang, droit du sol, qu’en est-il réellement ? On entend souvent parler du droit du sang » et du droit du sol ». Le droit français a opté pour une application partielle de chacun de ces la nationalité de l’enfant dépend de deux éléments le lieu de sa naissancela situation de ses parentsLe fameux droit du sang »L’acquisition de la nationalité par le droit du sang » est assez un enfant a au moins un de ses parents de nationalité française, alors, il est automatiquement français, dès sa naissance, par simple effet de la règle s’applique quelque soit le lieu de naissance de l’enfant, en France ou à l’ nationalité française de l’enfant est donc conditionnée par deux points la filiationla nationalité française d’un parent au moinsPlusieurs questions se posent donc automatiquement suite à ce le lien de filiation Quid de la remise en cause du lien de filiation ?Le principe prévu par l’article 20-1 du code civil est que la filiation de l’enfant n’a d’effet sur la nationalité de celui-ci que si elle est établie durant sa minorité ».Ainsi, quand le lien de filiation est remis en cause quand l’enfant est majeur, sa nationalité française elle n’est pas remise en cause. Elle reste acquise au jour de la revanche, si le lien de filiation est remis en cause pendant la minorité de l’enfant, les conséquences sont moins contestation de la filiation entraîne l’annulation rétroactive du lien de filiation. Ainsi, au jour de la naissance de l’enfant, le ressortissant français n’est plus considéré comme le père ou la mère de l’enfant et sa nationalité pourrait donc en principe être remise en de l’adoption ?L’adoption plénière permet l’attribution de la nationalité française puisqu’elle fait naître une nouvelle filiation qui se substitue à la filiation d’ simple en revanche, puisqu’elle laisse intacte la filiation originelle, n’a aucun effet sur la la nationalité des parents La nationalité des parents s’apprécie au jour de la naissance de l’enfant et durant la si le parent se voit retirer la nationalité française ?Il est clairement établi que si le parent françaisdu mineur perd la nationalité française pendant la majorité de son enfant, cela est sans incidence sur la nationalité de l’ revanche les choses se compliquent là encore si le retrait de la nationalité française a lieu pendant la minorité de l’enfant mais après sa retrait de la nationalité » il faut entendre d’une part la déchéance ou la perte de nationalité. Dans ce cas, la décision n’est pas rétroactive et au jour de la naissance le parent était bien français. La nationalité de l’enfant ne semble donc pas pouvoir être remise en par retrait de la nationalité » on peut également entendre l’annulation de la déclaration de nationalité par mariage par exemple. Dans ce cas, la décision est rétroactive et si l’on considère que le parent n’était pas français au jour de la naissance de l’enfant, sa nationalité peut théoriquement être remise en si le parent acquiert la nationalité française ?Si l’un des parents acquiert la nationalité française quand son enfant est majeur, cela n’a aucune incidence sur la nationalité de l’enfant, il ne peut prétendre à l’acquisition de la nationalité française à ce un des parents étrangers devient en revanche français pendant la minorité de l’enfant, il devient français à deux conditions le nom de l’enfant figure dans le décret de naturalisation ou dans la déclaration du parentl’enfant doit résider habituellement avec le parent qui devient exception, si l’enfant mineur est resté étranger, il peut demander la naturalisation si un de ses parents a acquis la nationalité françaiseil justifie avoir résidé en France avec son parent devenu français pendant les 5 années qui précédent le dépôt de la plus fameux droit du solLe très décrié droit du sol a une application limitée en droit effet, un enfant est français de naissance, si il est né en Franceun des parents est né soit en France ou soit en Algérie avant le 3 juillet 1962C’est donc une double condition du droit du sol qui s’applique l’enfant et un de ses parents doivent être nés en le reste, un enfant peut devenir français mais seulement à partir de ses 13 ans, et non depuis sa naissance, ce qui fera l’objet d’un autre article.} Laloi de 1970, qui a rendu illicite le cannabis, reste pertinente, avec la confirmation de la nocivité de cette drogue. La France est, pour sa consommation, au premier rang des 27 états Européens, avec 1 600 000 usagers réguliers et

On connaissait la France d'en haut et celle d'en bas, mais qu'en est-il du reste ? Le photographe Raymond Depardon s'est intéressé à cette France d'entre-deux souvent oubliée mais pourtant porteuse de l'identité tricolore et d'un certain espoirRaymond Depardon AFP est l'un des documentaristes et des photographes français majeurs de ce dernier demi-siècle. Le photo-reporter a débuté sa carrière dans les années 1960 avec Paris Match, pour lequel il obtient notamment un entretien-photographique exclusif avec le commandant Massoud en 1978. Après un tour du monde en 14 jours ou encore s'être longuement intéressé au monde rural tricolore, l'?il de ce fils de paysans s'est posé sur une France oubliée, celle qui est entre ville et campagne, mais qui ne fait partie d'aucun des deux mondes. "Sa" France est aujourd'hui exposée à la Bibliothèque nationale de France dans le XIIIème arrondissement de Paris*.La France de Depardon Raymond Depardon, ancien photojournaliste de l'agence Gamma et Magnum, a l'idée d'immortaliser cette France du milieu en 1998. Il lui faudra attendre 2004 pour monter dans son camping-car et commencer un périple de km qui lui fit traverser pendant cinq ans l'Hexagone d'un point cardinal à son opposé. De cette immersion dans une France oubliée, celle dont on ne parle "que lorsqu'il y survient un fait divers ou une catastrophe naturelle", Depardon ramène clichés pris à la chambre 20X25. Parmi eux, 300 sont publiés dans un livre édité par Seuil et la BnF et 36 tirages argentiques en couleur de très grand format sont mis en avant par l'exposition, qui confronte le visiteur avec un ordinaire qui retranscrit l'essence identitaire française. Une France ni joyeuse ni tristeLoin de la France carte-postale et des beautés des monuments, la caméra de Depardon s'est arrêtée sur les devantures de boucherie, les petites maisons sans prétention, les marchés des sous-préfectures et les chaussées défoncées. Digne héritier des photographes américains Walker Evans 1903-1975 et Paul Strand 1890-1976, Depardon a choisi une prise de vue frontale pour une confrontation directe avec ces petits riens qui font notre grand tout. Cette France "bricolée" comme il la qualifie, l'a visiblement touché par sa tendresse et ses habitants qui ont "un peu honte" de leurs bourgs négligés. Ce grand bout d'Hexagone que seul Google street view ose encore photographier, n'est "pas très gai" mais "pas déprimé", explique le photographe du réel. Les couleurs y sont d'ailleurs très présentes du rouge, du bleu, des tons puissants pour trancher avec la monotonie de la vie. "Ce sont des couleurs presque politiques. Elles disent 'je veux exister'", analyse Raymond espoir ordinaireCette France a beaucoup plu au photographe qui avoue "un faible" pour les années 1950. "Ça fait tilt pour moi, ces années formica", explique-t-il. A 68 ans, Raymond Depardon s'est amusé comme un bambin à partir sur les routes "J'éprouvais une joie très enfantine, très primaire, j'étais content d'avoir survécu au trac d'aller à Montbuisson en camping-car." Tel un vilain garnement à l'?il polisson, le photographe se souvient "Je me garais sur les places de village. Un matin, je me suis retrouvé en pyjama au beau milieu d'un marché qui venait de se monter". C'est donc finalement avec un certain émerveillement que Raymond Depardon décrit cette France intermédiaire "Ce ne sont pas 22 régions que l'on voit, ni 95 départements, mais quelque 400 pays". Un certain espoir se dégage d'ailleurs de ce portrait de la France d'entre-deux. A tel point que le photographe admet "Parfois je suis tenté de quitter la capitale. ? Ces gens ont de l'air. Et ils voient l'horizon".Damien Bouhours mercredi 13 octobre 2010*La France de Raymond Depardon, à la BnF François Mitterrand, du 30 septembre 2010 au 9 janvier 2011En savoir plus Site de la BnFArticle de France Soir, Quelle France Raymond Depardon a-t-il vu ? Article de Libération, Depardon, la France étalonnée Soutenez la rédaction Expat Mag ! Je soutiens ! Merci ! De la part de toutes les équipes de À lire sur votre édition internationale

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a celle qui est restée en france