The 10th arrondissement is what many French people would still call populaire - which means a “working class” and diverse area. Our street from the very first day was a fascination to me. Each day there were groups of young guys standing around. They didn’t speak French and they seemed to be from somewhere in the Middle East. They never seemed to work, yet they were all working age (18-35, or so it appeared). They were never aggressive and mostly huddled together, talking and floating in and out of the phone booths on the street with calling cards in their hands. After a bit of time living in the neighborhood, it became clear that they were Afghan refugees and they were waiting for visas and refugee status in France, or waiting to get to another country. I spent the day with them today. For a long time I’ve wanted to hear their stories. A few times I’ve approached a huddle of these guys and asked if they spoke English or French – on those occasions they didn’t. Today, I passed by and stopped to ask again. This time I was extremely fortunate and fell upon one gentleman, *A*, who had been a translator in Afghanistan and another young man who had worked as a translator in Greece on his way to France as a refugee. At first, I asked simple questions, like, where do you sleep and do you have enough to eat and are you able to work? These questions opened up a conversation that lasted all morning, into the afternoon and almost until the sun set. Here is what they told me.