Guest Article

By Banlieue Bubba

The Strike: Just offshore in the Island-of-France

Most observers of this strike, which rumor has it may turn out to be historic in its scope and duration, rightly paint a picture of frustration and annoyance through images of passengers crammed onto over-crowded trains crawling their way through the innards of the city’s underworld.  Another image of this strike etched in my mind has nothing to do with either the city or its inhabitants, but rather with the trains themselves, miles and miles of which are left abandoned on SNCF tracks at depots scattered across Ile-de-France.  Near my home south of the city along the RER B, I see these unwanted and unattended trains lying still in the yards, discarded by their striking drivers.  For someone raised with an appreciation for all things locomotive, it’s a sad sight.  The trains are there, ready to work; it’s just the drivers who would rather stay home.

The trains are there, ready to work; it’s just the drivers who would rather stay home.

Adding to the frustration caused by the strike itself, most days since this strike began have been ushered in with either cold or rain or both.  It is as if the unions were conspiring with the heavens to punish us—once with a lack of transit and again by making us stand in the cold and the rain.  Could it be that He is Himself a strike supporter and is doing His part for the cause?  Let’s hope this strike isn’t as serious as some say; I’d hate to see locusts added to the mix.

On a lighter note, I have to mention the finest moment of irony that I have witnesses since the strikers’ sudden onslaught of generalized lassitude a week ago: while in Paris, I overheard two strikers on a Metro platform attempting to find their way from one demonstration to another.  As their anxiety grew, the strikers complained bitterly about the strike, oblivious of the other passengers around them.  Those passengers noticed this hypocrisy and valiantly fought the urge to forcibly remove the strikers from the station.  One did, however, point out that if they wanted a train to their next strike destination, perhaps they should go back to work, a suggestion that unsurprisingly fell on deaf ears.

As fun as all of the demonstrating, leafleting and soap-boxing must be, I do wish the strikers would realize the human element on the other side of the table.  In all of the pushing and pulling to get in and out of these Metro trains, some eggs are bound to be broken.  On day three of the strike, across the tracks from me at St. Michel, I saw a woman on the opposite platform who had suffered one such injury.  As she held her head in her hands and several other passengers helped her to stand, I saw a fresh bruise and bloody gash on her forehead, which she had apparently received while trying to board the # 4 train that had just departed.  She stumbled onto the next train, with assistance, and perhaps was lucky that her injuries hadn’t been worse.  The strikers would do well to remember that the longer this goes on, the more such blood they’ll have let in the process.