"My dad was a Polish miner..."

So I came to live in Roubaix. Roubaix is a former textile industry town in Hauts-de-France (north part of France), literally on the Belgian border. Roubaix is not beautiful. Its main advantage is fast, 15-min metro connection to historic Lille.

The entire region is in post-industrial decay. Roubaix, once extremely rich textile manufacturing center, now is among France’s poorest communes. Numerous factories are defunct now, as are the coal mines of the region. When unemployed textile workers had to leave, Arabs moved in. Some parts of Roubaix Sunday market are not very different from Marrakech. Poverty comes with crime. For a few years, Roubaix had highest crime rate in France. Knowing a bit about statistics, I don’t worry about it, but it gives you an idea.

Obscure places like this fascinate me. It’s there, where tourists never go, where you can observe real life, and hear true stories.

Roubaix has its intriguing spots, but they are well hidden. Non-Lieux. La Piscine. Le Couvent. La Condition Publique. Bar Live. Saisons Zero. La Tricoterie. I discover them one by one, mostly incidentally. Artist workshops, meeting spaces, ateliers, asociations, in skillfully redesigned industrial lofts.

One of those places is Guillaume’s coworking in an old brick loft in Villeneuve-d'Ascq, a neighboring town. As an experienced digital nomad, I know what kind of cowork to look for. I stay far from commercial, plastic spaces. I look for rare, tiny, friends-and-family-driven office spaces. I came, looked Guillaume in the eyes and I knew right away I was going to stay.

Freelancers here from all walks of life. Over lunch and cigarette breaks, I got to talk to everyone. All cool people. One day I met Dominique from next room. When he learned that I was Polish, he told me his story.

My father was Polish. They came here after the war, like many miners did, looking for better life. He never spoke Polish at home and he never spoke about his past. My father worked in a coal mine south of Lille.

This happened not long after my birth. One day, when my dad was working deep in the mine, a disaster struck. An explosion shook the tunnels, plunging everything into darkness, and the air filled with smoke and heat. Breathing became impossible.

My dad, in a fraction of a second, acted on instinct. He straightened his arm and pulled the end of his jacket sleeve tightly over his wrist, sealing it. Then he tucked his mouth and nose into his armpit, under the jacket, where the sleeve created a small pocket of clean air trapped inside. He pulled the jacket over his head to shield himself from the smoke.

For long minutes, he stayed like that, breathing through the tiny reserve of clean air in the sleeve. He didn’t know if anyone would come to save him. Just when his hope was fading, he heard voices in the distance and faint shimmer of light. The rescuers found and saved my dad. But many other people around him were dead.

“When it was happening, I had only one thought,” he told me much later. “I was thinking of you.”

When this was happening, I was only a few months old.

After surviving the disaster, my father decided to dedicate himself to saving lives. He became an advocate for mining safety and joined the safety unit at the mine to ensure others would have better chances in the future.

***

I can relate to this story. I once lived in Katowice, the Polish mining hub, where Dominique’s dad probably came from. Mining was dangerous. But miners were respected. They built strong work ethics, they were known for mutual solidarity and over time, the mines become centers of resistance against the communist regime. In 1981, when the regime introduced martial law and imprisoned opposition, it is the miners who went on biggest strike and many were massacred and killed by police.

I also know the generation who did not talk about the past. Some of them just wanted to forget. Others feared - having lived in times when talking was dangerous.

Maybe I came to Roubaix for this story?

Post Scriptum

• If you ever need a coworking near Lille, you’ve found it

• More stories from France

• More stories from Poland